


Hot Days, Mad Blood

by noodlefrog



Series: Close Enough to Human [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And I Mean That Literally, Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Aziraphale teaches Crowley how to fight, Don't copy to another site, Historical, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Minor Injuries, Missing Scene, Other, Pre-Relationship, Renaissance Era, Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), Swordfighting, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2020-10-26 16:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20745212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlefrog/pseuds/noodlefrog
Summary: This was the point! The world, the people, the tempting and the blessing, all of it. These moments, when it was just the two of them, that was the point of it all, why it all mattered. These moments, just the span of a heartbeat, when Aziraphale saw what mischief Crowley’d done and the words of the Archangels that filled his mind were too slow to keep him from smiling about it. That was why this all mattered, why Crowley took these risks, why he was willing to keep taking them until the sun burned out. He would couldn’t say the words yet, not even in his head, but he knew there was no limit to what he would do for even one more of these heartbeats. If he could, he’d crawl inside of one and live there.It's summer in Florence and Hell thinks it's Crowley's fault that all the local kids have taken up an interest in dueling. Crowley's content to kick back and enjoy the wine, until he hears Aziraphale is planning to answer a challenge in the morning. It's easy enough for him to insert himself into the middle of it, but not even Crowley was anticipating how truly incompetent he is with a sword.





	1. The Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself this was going to be a one shot, but apparently I can't write those.
> 
> Title taken from Benvolio's line in Act 3 of _Romeo and Juliet_ right before they all start stabbing each other:  
  
_I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire:_  
_The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,_  
_And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl;_  
_For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring._
> 
> **Now part of a series, yay!**

**Florence, 1583**

As a serpent, Crowley loved to bask. Bask in the sun, bask in the feeling of a bad job done well, bask in the beauty of human art and culture… Some places were better basking locations than others, and perhaps that’s why he found himself returning again and again to the Italian peninsula. It was an ideal place to be a demon these days, what with all of the states vying for power and all of the money flowing into corrupt (and corruptible) hands. True, there were other places that were just as sunny, just as beautiful, and where it was just as easy to pluck at the strings of politics, but Crowley wouldn’t set foot in Spain again for anything less than his bosses holding Holy Water over his head.

The heat made Crowley’s job a lot easier. Aside from the simple, serpentine pleasure of feeling the sun on his skin, Crowley loved how irrational the humans became in the summer. The heat made them more susceptible to temptation, so susceptible that Crowley rarely had to do anything at all to get them to inconvenience themselves and others. Wrath, specifically, was almost too easy to inspire in the summer months, because the humans saw practically anything as provocation to attack one another once the temperatures got high enough.

Dueling was in fashion now in this part of the world, and although Crowley felt no desire whatsoever to participate in it himself, it was endlessly entertaining to watch. He had no eye for blood sport, or the technicalities of swordplay as an art form, but the petty dramas and insults that fueled the violence were amusing and would, centuries later, inform his creative vision while he worked on developing the concept of reality television. A challenge for a duel could be issued for any reason, it seemed, no matter how inane. Pride was an easy thing to wound, and once it was hurt, no mortal or demon could stop the humans from working themselves into knots trying to figure out how to kill one another in a way that would satisfy the brutal requirements of this thing called _honor_ they’d built around themselves like scaffolding.

Of course, very few of the humans Crowley personally nudged towards violence actually died, at least not when he could help it. When Crowley was in the audience for a duel, blades miraculously missed vital organs and wounds healed cleanly after the fact instead of festering and bringing on a lingering demise. It wasn’t out of any squeamishness for death or violence, of course, because as a demon, he should be encouraging that kind of thing. It was just simple math, and Hell should be grateful to him for it. If a duel ended fatally, Hell potentially only claimed the soul of the murderer (maybe as many as two souls, if the victim was a real bastard or felt enough wrath towards his killer to counterbalance the rest of a good life). However, if the loser survived, hurt and humiliated, that sort of anger could grow within him for decades, tarnishing his soul as he lashed out at countless others in his time. Prolonging their lives certainly wasn’t a mercy.

This particular summer, Crowley had embedded himself in an inn in an unscrupulous part of town. It was exactly the sort of place he wanted to be. They kept the wine in a cellar beneath the establishment, and when it was brought up to be served it was cool and refreshing. The clientele was largely comprised of hotheaded young men, mostly soldiers and the occasional merchant’s son, only interested in drinking and fighting and peacocking in front of the neighborhood girls. On most days Crowley was content to sit at a table in the back sipping chilled wine and keeping a mental tally of instances of gluttony, wrath, and lust to add to his weekly report Downstairs.

On this day, however, his afternoon routine was disrupted by a commotion at the front of the establishment. The source of the disturbance was a group of four soldiers including, at their center, a young officer named Cambio who's exploits and hair-trigger temper had featured prominently in several of the past weeks’ reports. Currently, he was shouting and waving something around in his hand like it had offended him. The boy hadn’t even had anything to drink yet, it seemed to Crowley, so this had to be good. The topic of conversation seemed to be Cambio’s upcoming duel with another young idiot, a teenager he’d quarreled with over cards the previous night. Cambio had made some rather tasteless remarks about one of the local noble’s daughters, and it had turned out that she was this young man’s sister. From there it had spiraled wildly out of control and Crowley hadn’t even had to lift a finger to make them agree to fight to the death in two days’ time. Now, by the sound of it, the duel was off.

“—and the coward didn’t even have the decency to tell me himself!” Cambio yelled. “He sent his damned second out to find me!”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do, Cambio! The seconds are supposed to negotiate.” Another young soldier groaned. Crowley couldn’t quite place his name, but he’d seen him around here before. “You should have sent me, you idiot! Why’d you even ask me to be your second if you do all the fun parts yourself?”

Cambio ignored him, continuing his rant at full speed and slapping what Crowley now saw was a letter. “_Conduct unbefitting a young gentleman of his rank_! I’ll tell you what conduct is unbefitting, showing up here to get piss drunk over cards! He wasn’t worried about his rank last night when he challenged me, but now that he’s sobered up, he’s too scared to step up and face me like a man!”

“I mean, to be fair, he was… what?” A third soldier ventured. “Fifteen, sixteen maybe? Isn’t this better? This way you don’t find yourself horsewhipped for beating up a nobleman’s kid.”

“Or worse, if you actually managed to kill him.” Cambio’s second chimed in.

“Yeah, and it’s not that much better to kill some fat old merchant. What’ll that look like, huh?” Said another. “If he’s Maffeo’s second, I’m sure he has a lot of powerful friends.”

“He’s not even going to let me kill him!” Cambio said, shaking the letter. “His fuckin’ second’s changed the terms!”

As the group of soldiers crowded over the letter and started commiserating loudly with their friend, Crowley started to tune them out, returning his attention to the cool wine in his cup. There’d still be a duel to include in his report, and now he didn’t even have to worry about stopping someone from fatally skewering a stupid teenager with a title and attitude problems. Not a bad day’s work, for having done no work at all.

“You should have seen him, Marsilio!” Cambio pointed at his second as he sank into a chair at the center of his audience. “Some foreigner, terrible accent. English bastard, I think. Practically floats when he walks.”

Crowley set his cup down on the table.

“Should’ve seen the clothes on him, too!” One of them sneered, straightening his doublet in a mocking imitation of a gesture that Crowley had seen performed thousands of times before by different hands. “Any more lace and he’d be tripping on it.”

Barely cognizant of making the decision to move, Crowley took his wine in hand and drifted closer to their table.

“He tried to talk me out of it before he handed over the terms.” Cambio continued, almost in tears laughing as he slapped his second’s shoulder. “I think he even quoted the fucking Bible at me, Marsilio!”

“What’s the news, boys?” Crowley drawled, sliding into the seat between the young officer and Marsilio, his second.

“Hey, Antonio. Get a load of this.” Cambio pushed the letter across the table. Even before picking it up, Crowley knew who wrote it. He’d recognize that copperplate handwriting anywhere. “I was supposed to duel that Maffeo brat, you know, from last night. This morning he sends over his fucking second to tell me he’s too good to fight me himself, and he’s going to have this fussy old bastard do it instead.”

“_Signore Fell_.” The soldier who’d done the imitation earlier chirped the name in a sing-song voice and did a passable job of applying a posh British accent to his Italian.

Crowley scanned the letter. Sure enough, he was arguing that this Maffeo idiot was too highly ranked to duel a common soldier, and that the insult to his sister’s honor would be settled by a representative. There was a lot of waffling in there about the futility of interpersonal violence and the value of forgiveness as a holy act, and Satan preserve him, the angel certainly liked to talk a lot, didn’t he? He skimmed to the end and saw the schedule details—dawn tomorrow in the courtyard of a home outside the city proper that was owned by the boy’s family—and that, _Satan’s hairy sack_, of _course_ refreshments would be served.

How long had Aziraphale been in Florence? It had been years since they’d last met up, but Crowley knew he’d been in and out of the area for quite some time, with all of the religious furor in this time and place. Unfortunately, he was called to spend most of his time in the company of Popes and Cardinals, where Crowley couldn’t follow him. Typical of the Catholics to consecrate a whole section of a city he otherwise enjoyed being in.

Better question: Why was Aziraphale in Florence dueling on behalf of some rich teenager who got drunk and decided to start a fight in a bar like this one?

“This… Signore Fell,” Crowley asked, folding the letter, “How long ago did he give you this?”

“Just now. I came straight here with Vieri after.” Cambio said, nodding to the soldier who had done the impressions. He held his hand out to take the letter back.

“Right.” Crowley ignored him and slipped it into his pocket. “And where’d you last see him?”

“In the market. Why, do you know him?” Vieri asked.

Crowley drained the last of his wine. “You could say that. Honestly, you lot should be thanking me that I was here. It’s a good thing you aren’t going to fight him tomorrow, Cambio. Fell’d snap you in half like biscotti.”

The young officer’s face registered shock for a moment before he covered it up with bluster. “What do you mean, I’m not gonna fight him tomorrow? I’m not afraid of him!”

“‘Course you’re not. But you’re in no state to be fighting anyone, not like this,” Crowley said, waving a hand at him, “Sick as you are.”

“Antonio’s right, you look like shit.” Marsilio said, touching the back of his hand to Cambio’s face and pulling back like he’d been burned. Cambio himself looked wide-eyed and scared by this development, noticing now that his breathing carried a little wheeze to it, and that his forehead was slick with a sheen of sweat.

“When’d it get so fucking cold in here?” He asked with a shiver.

“Those’ll be the chills. Almost a relief in heat like this, though, if you ask me.” Crowley stood up and headed for the door. He noticed with mild annoyance that the rest of the group of soldiers was following him.

“Where’re you going?” Cambio called out, swaying a little in his seat at the table where he’d been abandoned.

“Well, you’re in no condition to hold a sword, but the challenge still needs to be satisfied. Honor, and all that, or whatever. So, as your second,” Crowley drawled, snapping his fingers, “I’m going to find Fell and let him know I’m filling in for you.”

“Wait a minute. You’re not his second,” Marsilio said, indignant, “I’m his second!”

The group turned to Cambio for answers. His face was flushed and his eyes were vacant. “What are you talking about? I asked Antonio to be my second.”

“See?” Crowley shrugged, hand on the tavern door. “You guys should really see about taking him somewhere he can have a lie down. He looks like he’s about to pass out.” As he stepped out into the street, he heard the solid thunk of Cambio’s forehead hitting the table. The cluster of soldiers did not follow him.

For a pair of adversaries with a five and a half thousand year-long history of thwarting one another’s wiles, he and Aziraphale had attacked each other a surprisingly small number of times. Specifically, exactly zero times. From the very beginning, neither of them had seemed much interested in the prospect of combat. Crowley, of course, was always interested in doing as little work as possible, and Aziraphale seemed like he was practically allergic to swords ever since giving his own away back in Eden. There was a good chance, if he put his mind to it, that Crowley could count on his fingers the number of times he’d seen the angel actually take up arms in all their time together, and he’d never seen him kill someone. Why, then, was he volunteering to fight now, if he hated it so much?

The answer to why Crowley, another being who avoided fighting as much as he could, had volunteered for this was… much more readily apparent. True, the two of them had never tried to harm one another before, but on one very memorable occasion they’d found themselves competing in the same event in the Olympic games. It had only taken minor demonic interference to arrange, and although Crowley had lost the match, he walked away from the situation feeling like he’d won something even better.

It had happened more than two thousand years ago, predating both the Arrangement and even his own name change, but the memory was still sharp. That wasn’t any surprise. Crowley thought about it often enough to keep it fresh. Given the current social mores in the area, this upcoming duel was likely to involve a lot more clothing and a lot less olive oil than had their brief foray into the sport of wrestling, but Crowley would be damned—again—if he missed such an easy opportunity to get the angel sweaty and physical again, regardless of the context. Crowley was fully aware of what a sad, desperate bastard he was, but for once he wasn’t going to let his ever-present sense of disgust at himself get in the way of things.

It was easy enough to find Aziraphale once he made it to the marketplace, now that he knew he should be looking. All it took was heading to where the food was served, and there he was. The soldiers hadn’t been wrong, there certainly was a lot of lace there. As he often did, Aziraphale had clothed himself in something fancy, impractical, and just a little out of fashion for the time. The satin doublet was obviously high quality, the lace at the collar and sleeves said “money”, but the hose were more padded than was worn these days by the kind of man Aziraphale was pretending to be. Still, though, this century favored people with the angel’s body type, and the look of his calves in those stockings was incredibly distracting. The bastard was even wearing an earring.

“Signore Fell!” He said as he sidled up beside him, his tone just mocking enough, he hoped, to conceal the fondness there. The smile he got in response was almost blinding.

“Signore… Crowley?” When he saw Crowley’s answering nod, telling him he was in fact using that name in these parts, Aziraphale gave him a conspiratorial look and wiggle before turning away to examine the wares of a nearby stall. Typical Aziraphale, always careful to look like they were in the same place by accident. Crowley mirrored him and pretended to be interested in his shopping. This was an ancient dance of theirs, less common now in the days of the Arrangement when they could schedule meetings, but it had kept them safe in the past when they’d met by chance like this. They moved through the marketplace in parallel, keeping their backs to one another and speaking in low voices when they passed close enough to do so.

“In Florence long?” Crowley asked.

“Just on a short errand, I’m afraid.” Came the reply. “And yourself?”

“Weather’s nice, wine’s good,” He said with a shrug, “Figured I’d stay here until they need me elsewhere.”

“Your hair’s longer again.” Aziraphale murmured. It sounded like he was smiling.

“And yours is the same as it always is.” Crowley said, taking a silver serving tray from a display and tilting it in his hand. “The earring’s a bold choice, though. It’s good to see you trying new things, angel.”

He heard Aziraphale make a scandalized noise behind him and for a moment he indulged the fantasy of trying to see the angel’s reflection in the polished silver. Would he blush at the tops of his ears like he sometimes did when Crowley complimented him? Would he raise a hand to touch the pearl? Crowley never found out. The tray, for all its shine, only reflected a distorted view of the people behind him. He could only pick out the smudge of the angel’s image because of how white his clothing was. He set the tray down and moved on.

After he collected himself, Aziraphale shifted a little closer and cut their pleasantries short. “What, ah... Brings you here, my dear?”

“Business.”

“Business. Now, Crowley. This… business… you’re involved in. Is it your own, or is it for the…” Aziraphale trailed off and Crowley couldn’t help but chuckle. How many years had it been of trading blessings and temptations? He’d have thought by now that Aziraphale would be a little more used to it, but the angel still couldn’t bring himself to so much as say the words _the Arrangement_, at least when he was sober.

“Nah, not that.” Crowley sighed. “At least, I don’t think it is. I’m actually here about your business.”

Aziraphale risked a glance over his shoulder to look at him, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“The word in my part of the neighborhood is that you…” He paused, enjoying the suspense in Aziraphale’s expression, “Have taken up dueling, angel.”

“Ah. _That_.” Aziraphale said, turning away. He sounded annoyed. “It wasn’t what I wanted to be doing while I was here, but then that hard-headed little fool snuck out to go _carousing_… There was no talking him out of it once he decided, believe me. I tried. This was the best I could manage, under the circumstances.”

“Why not let him go ahead with it?” Crowley asked, paying for a bunch of grapes.

“I don’t think I should explain the situation to you, foul fiend.”

“Oh, come on, angel. You know I’ll stay out of your way, whatever it is. That’s part of the rules of the A—”

“Yes, yes, _fine_, but keep your voice down!” Aziraphale hushed him. “If you _must_ know, I’m to encourage the young man to take the cloth. I can’t have him committing murder, or _being_ murdered, or developing some sort of thirst for blood and violence.”

“Naturally.”

Aziraphale’s voice dropped to a stage whisper. “I have on good authority that he has a shot at becoming the Pope, once he’s older.”

“And of course, you can’t be a Pope if you have a thirst for blood and violence.” Crowley drawled. “Grape?”

“Oh, yes please.” Aziraphale’s voice brightened. He was holding his hands behind his back and Crowley watched as one tight fist opened, palm-up. Crowley pushed past him to look at another stall, bumping into him and stealthily dropping the fruit into his hand. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Don’t.” Crowley growled.

“Quite right.” Aziraphale said, putting a grape in his mouth. “How did you know about this whole… situation?”

“The soldier he challenged and I are regulars in the same bar. He came in today, very upset he wasn’t going to get to gut your young Pope-to-be.”

“I assume its your demonic mischief at work here,” Aziraphale sniffed, “All this pointless, petty bloodshed and death.”

“Angel, when has bloodshed and death ever been my style?” Crowley sighed. “They don’t need my help coming up with stupid reasons to kill each other, and at least when I’m there they tend to have a better survival rate.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale tittered, “That’s so—”

“Hey, watch it. Another word from you and I’ll…” Crowley hesitated, trying to think of a threat that would hold weight, “I’ll take the grapes back.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

He heard Aziraphale munch on a few of the grapes in aggravated silence before he spoke. “Crowley, did you have a point in bringing this up, other than to poke fun at me for having to engage in all this foolishness?”

“I did. As it turns out, the poor bastard you’re to duel has come down with a _very_ sudden fever and he won’t be fit to fight come morning.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, scandalized. “I cannot believe you. The poor boy. You _mustn’t_. The humans, they’re so fragile.”

“Relax, angel. He’ll be fine. He just _thinks_ he’s sick.” He waved a hand dismissively. “He should wake up tomorrow around, say, lunchtime. He’ll be fine, but as for the morning, he’ll not be in any shape to answer your boy’s challenge.”

“Oh, that’s incredible! I say, I don’t know how you always manage it, but you have saved me an awful lot of inconvenience today, my dear boy.”

“And,” Crowley continued, grinning as he stepped around to stand in front of the angel, “He’s sent his second to the marketplace to inform Signore Fell of the substitution. The challenge must be satisfied, after all.”

Aziraphale looked over Crowley’s shoulder for a moment as if he was expecting to see someone else there with him. Seeing no one, he looked back at the demon and realization dawned on his face. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Really? Crowley, why would you go and do such a foolish thing? I have no intention of fighting you, so you can just… forget about that.”

“Would you rather back out, then?” He offered. “I won’t force a duel, if you don’t want one, but these humans are so hard to argue with when they get like this. They’re expecting a fight, and if we don’t give them one, they’ll probably try to do it on their own.”

“Crowley. This is ridiculous.”

“What would be ridiculous would be if tomorrow, your human decided he wanted his duel bad enough to drag my human from his sickbed. Or if he hired some muscle to go beat him up. Both of those things have happened before, you know, and worse. That behavior wouldn’t exactly be… Papal.” He popped the “p” and smiled at the angel.

“This doesn’t change the fact that…” Aziraphale dropped his voice at the end, too low for Crowley to hear him.

“Didn’t catch that.”

Aziraphale wouldn’t look at him. “I don’t want to fight you, Crowley.”

“That didn’t stop you last time.” He said, scratching his stubble.

“What are you talking about?” Aziraphale’s gaze was still lowered, but even in profile he looked a little wary.

“We’ve fought before, angel.” Crowley said in tones of exaggerated betrayal, touching his hand to where his heart, presumably, was housed in this vessel. “Can’t believe you forgot.”

“When?”

Crowley smirked. “Ancient Greece.”

The tops of Aziraphale’s ears pinked. He shook his head and flexed his fingers. “Really, my dear, that’s—I’d hardly call that a fight. It was… sport. Completely different.”

“Is it thought? I mean, I don’t want to kill you. You presumably don’t want to kill me. We’re just going to go out there and,” Crowley wriggled two long index fingers, “Mess around until one of us comes out on top. No harm done. I don’t see how it’s that different.”

Aziraphale seemed to consider this a moment before shaking his head again. “Do you even have a sword?”

“I do, in fact.” Crowley said with a little tilt of his head. He’d had very few reasons to use one before this, as most quarrels with humans ended quickly and were aided more by demonic miracle than fighting prowess. He didn’t often see the need to walk around armed, but in these parts, swords were essentially a fashion accessory. Of course, like all his accessories… “I got them to make me one specially. The handle’s a snake, want to see?”

Before Aziraphale could answer, he had drawn his rapier and tossed it with a flourish so he could catch the blade and present the hold-able end to the angel. The way he caught it would have cut his palm, were the sword less aware of the expectations its owner had of its behavior. The flash of steel drew the attention of some of the people nearby, a few of whom had stepped back to give them room. The crowd was in a titter now. Nothing like the possibility of blood to break up the monotony of a hot afternoon.

“Crowley, put that thing away. We are in the marketplace. People are _watching_ now.” Aziraphale hissed, but he wasn’t watching the crowd. He was watching Crowley with something like dawning horror on his face. Crowley couldn’t place the source of it, but he saw the angel’s eyes flickering between his sword, his face, and, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, his feet.

As Crowley sheathed his weapon again, he heard excited, familiar chatter from behind him. With an exasperated sigh, he turned to see the soldiers from the tavern watching him.

“You do know him!” Vieri crowed.

“Excellent observation there, guys.” He said. “Yes, Signore Fell and I do know one another. We are…” Crowley glanced over his shoulder. It wouldn’t do to call him a friend, not when Aziraphale looked so concerned... but how else to explain it? “Rivals. Rivals from way back.”

Apparently, that excited the humans’ imagination. “Have you fought each other before?” Marsilio asked, looking between them with his head on a swivel.

“Yeah, loads of times.” Crowley responded, grinning.

“What makes him your rival?” Asked the last one, the one Crowley’d never caught the name of. “What makes you want to fight him so badly?”

“Oh, this and that.” Aziraphale said weakly.

“Who usually wins?”

“We’re so evenly matched,” Crowley said, waving his hand with a flourish, “We have to keep coming back to fight each other, because no one fight feels like it ever _really_ settles it, you know?” He could practically feel Aziraphale’s eyes boring holes into the back of his head with a glare. “Anyway, gotta be off. Give my best to Cambio. _Ciao_.”

Crowley doffed his hat to them and strolled away from the marketplace. His thoughts were on what to do in the intervening hours between now and dawn. He’d agitated the angel so much he doubted he’d seek him out for dinner or drinks before the duel, but he still had hopes for after the whole thing was over. In the meantime, though… should he get a cape? A lot of the other duelists wore them. Most all of the woodcuts had them wearing capes. It certainly wasn’t the season for it, but they did help tie an outfit together…

He was only a few streets away when the angel caught up with him again.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale hissed, and Crowley was thankfully able to suppress his startle response.

“Angel?” He slowed his pace so Aziraphale could comfortably walk, if not at his side, a pace or two behind him.

“What exactly was that back there, Crowley?”

“Which part?” He kept his face firmly forward, hoping to conceal at least some of his amusement. Getting the angel flustered was one of his favorite pastimes.

“You’ve no idea how much harder you’ve made this, Crowley.” He snipped over Crowley’s shoulder. “The humans have _expectations_ now. Long-time rivals? Evenly matched? _Unbelievable_.”

“That’s what we are, though, aren’t we? It’s what you keep saying.” Crowley said back, sharper than he was expecting it to sound. “Adversaries. Rivals. Whatever the word, we’re on different sides, and it’s your job to thwart my wiles. So, go on then, angel. _Thwart me_.”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened, then closed. Crowley turned away, though he could almost feel the anxious fidgeting going on behind him. What the angel finally managed to say was not at all what he’d been expecting to hear.

“What are you doing for the rest of the day?”

Well, that certainly piqued his interest. Maybe a meal together was in the cards, after all. He shrugged. “Nothing I can’t reschedule. Why?”

“Follow me out of the city at a distance.” Aziraphale brushed past him, giving his instructions in a quiet, clipped tone. “Don’t walk with me, I don’t want to be seen leaving together.”

If Crowley’s interest was piqued before, it was well and truly roused now. This day had gone from routine to completely fucking fascinating in the course of about an hour. He did as he was bid, leaving the angel enough space to avoid suspicion as they wove through the busy Florentine streets. Once they’d passed through the city gates, he gave him an even wider distance, hanging back on the road until his companion was just a cream-colored speck at the edge of his vision. They walked this way in silence until they had left the last of the close-by houses and vineyards behind them, and then Aziraphale took a turn off the road completely. Fascinated, Crowley followed behind and tried to imagine what was so urgent as to make Aziraphale risk runs in his stockings and mud on his shoes.

The angel finally stopped at the top of a hill. There weren’t so many trees here, and although they could see Florence on the horizon, it felt like a truly isolated spot. When Crowley caught up, Aziraphale was waiting for him with his back turned. He noticed that he’d swapped his clothes with a miracle, all that satin and lace replaced with canvas and soft calfskin. Commoner’s clothes, much less structured than anything he’s seen on the angel in centuries. _Ah, well. There’s the mystery of the clothes answered_, Crowley thought, _Probably sent his good stuff home to keep it clean_.

Then Aziraphale turned to face him and drew his sword. His face was impassive and all at once, Crowley was reminded that his soft and nonthreatening appearance was simply an affectation. Here was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and although the sword was not on fire, he looked exactly as he had the very first time Crowley had ever glimpsed him patrolling atop the walls of Eden.

“What are you doing, angel?” There was some lingering demonic instinct that told him to reach for his own sword, but all he could do was stare at Aziraphale like he was the rising sun.

“Really, my dear boy.” Aziraphale said, walking towards him. “You’ve engineered it so I have to fight you in the morning. The least I can do is make sure you know how to hold your damn sword.”


	2. Stance and Grip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The the idea of getting a private lesson from Aziraphale should have been a fun diversion. Aziraphale's teaching, however, is going to kill Crowley... one way or another.

It took a great deal of effort, but Crowley managed to close his mouth. Speech was a bit more complicated, but after a few aborted syllables he was finally able to ask the obvious question.

Well, perhaps not _the_ obvious question. To ask that would be to examine why, exactly, the whole “avenging angel with a sword” thing made him want to run towards Aziraphale instead of away from him, and Crowley was not in any position to investigate that at the moment. Obviously, he had… well, it was all one-sided, wasn’t it? It wasn’t worth it to dwell on it, since it was never going to happen, especially as it seemed to get worse and worse every time he ran into Aziraphale. He felt like one of those first wolves to find itself snagged in the lure of domestication. He enjoyed the angel’s company—more than enjoyed, if he was being honest with himself, which was getting more painful to do as time wore on—but it was coming at the cost of the gradual erosion of his sense of self-preservation. Today was just the reveal of the latest casualty in Aziraphale’s millennia-long crusade to wrap Crowley around his finger. As a demon, he should find angels, especially ones who were marching towards him with a drawn blade, _alarming_ instead of…

Well, it just didn’t make any sense, did it? It would be like seeing a bathtub full of Holy Water and thinking, _that looks nice and warm, I’d better strip down naked and sink into that… and you know what, while I’m here, might as well open my mouth and find out how it tastes_—

Fortunately, Crowley managed to keep all of that on the inside. Unfortunately, the thing he did manage to ask was, “What makes you think I want an angel to give me sword lessons?”

Aziraphale stopped a few paces away from him and gave him a long, appraising look. “Not _an_ angel, my dear.” He said with a tight little smile. “The Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“… right. Well.”

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompted, his tone indicating that he would not easily take any argument.

“Well.” Crowley began, hating the instinct for self-sabotage and deflection that he could feel working within him. If the angel wanted to bring him up to an isolated, romantic hilltop to roughhouse with him—and all on his own, too, no cajoling required on Crowley’s part for once—Crowley should just shut his mouth and enjoy it. Not that this was a romantic hilltop, of course. It never would be, not with Aziraphale. This was just a hill. They were just here for business, just like anything else they did for the Arrangement. They’d been on hills before, right? Must have. A lot of hills in the world, a lot of years they’d been on it. It would have been weird if this was their first time for anything… Crowley should just go with it, whatever it was that the angel was doing. An afternoon with Aziraphale was always more interesting than anything he could get up to on his own, and he didn’t want to say anything to make the angel leave.

Of course, the part of Crowley’s mind that was having an anxiety attack about what all this meant was separate from the part of his mind that controlled his speech, because he looked Aziraphale in the eye and said, “It’s not necessary. I don’t need this.” He felt like kicking himself.

“I’m afraid that you do, Crowley.” Aziraphale said. “And has it occurred to you that I need this, too?”

Crowley’s brain completely short-circuited. “Need… You?” Crowley licked his lips and considered his response with irritation—perfectly articulate when it counted, just like always. Good job, Crowley. “I mean. Yeah. I was. I was gonna ask you what you got out of this.”

“Well.” Aziraphale said, clearing his throat. His posture was perfect, the sword held firm and unmoving in his grip, but his other arm was behind his back and the tiny movements of his elbow told Crowley he was probably twisting his ring around on his finger. “What you said in the market. To those young gentlemen…”

“I wouldn’t really call those guys _gentlemen_.”

“Don’t interrupt.” Aziraphale snipped. He wasn’t looking at Crowley when he spoke, eyes flitting between the heavens, down to the road below the hill, and back again. “Well. What you said to them wasn’t exactly… incorrect. We _are_. Ah. Adversaries. Have been for quite some time now. And we are rather evenly matched.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and smirked. “High praise, angel.”

“Like you said, we keep… running into one another. You have your wiles, I… thwart them. But it isn’t ever finished. Neither of us ever really wins for long. And that only works if we are evenly matched. That’s why we’re able to have the… Oh, you know what I mean. Don’t make me say it.”

“The Arrangement?” Crowley supplied.

“_Don’t say that_!” Aziraphale hissed. “Anyone could be watching us. You know that.”

“They’re not watching us. How many times do I have to tell you that? They don’t care about what we do, so long as we get results.”

“And what happens when they do pay attention? What if they watch us tomorrow at dawn?”

“Angel, that’s the _best_ time for them to watch us. Ancient rivals locked in combat. S’what they want. We’ll give ‘em a good show, write about it in our reports, get home office off our backs for a bit. It’s perfect for both of us. _Dear Gabriel_.” He said, raising the pitch of his voice. “_I had a bit of a scrap with that dreadful demon Crowley_.”

“Crowley.”

“_Aren’t I a good angel, uncovering his Hellish influence and engaging in a spot of good old-fashioned Holy violence_?”

“Crowley!” Something in Aziraphale’s tone made Crowley pause. This was more than just his normal response to being teased. His voice was soft, strained… Crowley hated it. “Every time I go back Upstairs, I’m asked why I haven’t vanquished you yet. Every time. And every time I tell them you… you were just too slippery for me. You got away.”

“Yeah, Hell’s asked me the same once or twice.”

“Precisely. Crowley, the A…” Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “What we have only works because they think we’re evenly matched. If they see us tomorrow, they’re going to see that we’re not.”

“What do you mean?” He asked, and for once, it sounded as flippant as he’d hoped it would.

“Crowley. I am one of the Lord’s own warriors. You nearly skewered yourself just drawing your sword. You’re a danger to yourself with that thing more so than you are to anyone else.” Crowley began to protest, and Aziraphale held up a hand to quiet him. “As things stand now, not only will you lose tomorrow, you’ll lose so spectacularly that any angel watching is going to start asking why I didn’t just cut you down in the Garden.”

“Couldn’t have cut me down in the Garden without a sword.” Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale ignored him. “And what is Hell going to think, if they check in on you tomorrow, if they see you trounced like that?”

That gave Crowley pause. He expended a lot of effort convincing his bosses of his competence, and they still frequently threatened to replace him with another demon if they caught him slacking. He couldn’t leave the angel up here with someone like Hastur…

At the same time, Aziraphale’s words were getting under his skin. He had too much pride to be talked to like this, even by the angel. _Especially_ by the angel.

“What makes you think you can trounce me? It occurs to me that you haven’t ever seen me fight, and yet you’ve already decided I’m a lost cause.”

“By all means, Crowley dear.” Aziraphale sighed. “Prove me wrong. Draw your blade.”

Crowley obeyed, steadfastly ignoring the awkward angle of his arm and the proximity of the flight path of his elbow relative to his face.

“…That was...”

“That was a fluke.”

“Of course.”

“See? Didn’t stab myself. No need to waste your time on me, angel.” He wiggled his sword around in what he hoped was a confident display of skill. What could be so hard about all of that, anyway? “I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

It was then that Crowley made the mistake of looking straight at Aziraphale, right in his eyes. Right into _those_ eyes. His fate was sealed. Nothing to be done about it at this point.

This was the trouble with Aziraphale. He was absolutely maddening. Maddeningly attractive, maddeningly frustrating, and maddeningly capable of vacillating between the two without giving Crowley any time to catch up. Sometimes, like the present moment, he was able to be both at the same time. Those eyes. Satan, he just wanted to put his hands over them sometimes when the angel got like this. These were eyes that said _I can’t ask, but I want_, and _please, Crowley_, and _Crowley, will you, for me_? He had no chance of withstanding those eyes when Aziraphale looked at him like that. Whatever foolish thing the angel was asking him for, Crowley had no choice but to get it for him.

Right now, what it seemed the angel wanted was Crowley here with him, Crowley with a sword in his hand… He wasn’t a warrior, not like Aziraphale, but with those eyes turned on him like that Crowley felt like he could have taken on the Host of Heaven alone if that was what Aziraphale was asking of him. He groaned, wordless, and nodded in agreement.

“Oh, Crowley, thank—” Aziraphale cut himself off as he caught a warning glance over the top of Crowley’s sunglasses. “Right. Well. I’m glad that you have agreed to do this with me.”

“Mm.”

“No sense in waiting around, then, I suppose.” Aziraphale said with a wiggle. “Let’s start with your stance and your grip.”

“What’s wrong with my stance?” Crowley asked, looking down at his feet.

“Oh, Crowley. Where to begin?”

“Right.” He grunted. “What first, angel?”

“Here, hold up your sword.” Crowley obeyed and Aziraphale pursed his lips. “You see how the weight of it pulls your hand down with it?” The angel stepped closer, putting a hand on the twisting metal serpent encircling Crowley’s grip. He tilted it side to side, examining it. “It’s a well-crafted sword, I’ll grant you that. Even if your devotion to your aesthetics is a bit… amusing.”

“Glad to keep you amused, angel.” Crowley said, staring down at their hands, so close together and only separated by a thin band of steel.

“This here, the hilt. The metal curves around to protect your hand. But you can’t hold on to it like that, like it’s the neck of a wine bottle. It’s a long blade. Heavy. You need to support it with your whole arm. Better control, less likely to snap your wrist if someone strikes your blade the wrong way. Hold your finger here, over the cross…”

For a moment, it looked like Aziraphale was going to touch him, to move his hand into position for him, but the angel pulled his hand back to his side. The movement was too fast, a little jerky, like he’d been stung by their non-contact. Crowley tried not to be insulted by it. Instead, Aziraphale lifted his own sword up to eye level and demonstrated the grip he’d described.

The angel’s sword, Crowley noticed with some surprise, wasn’t the beautiful masterwork he had expected to see in Aziraphale’s hand. It had a similar style of hilt to Crowley’s, the style Aziraphale had said was protective, but the design was straightforward, even simple, and was completely devoid of decoration. It wasn’t crudely made at all, but it seemed so plain compared to the decadent fashion choices Aziraphale tended to favor. Also, the angel could joke about the predictability of Crowley and snakes all he wanted, but Crowley knew that Aziraphale was as much beholden to his own angelic aesthetics as Crowley was to his. The absence of wings was notable.

Crowley copied the positioning of Aziraphale’s fingers. As much as he hated to admit it, it did feel better in his hand like that, and it made it easier to hold the damn thing still.

Aziraphale beamed. “Excellent, dear boy. Look at your wrist, good. Keep your arm straight.”

He had to stand there, unmoving and in agony, for far too long as Aziraphale circled him, inspecting him. Adjusting him. His touches were featherlight and fleeting and maddening, always separated from skin by as much fabric as possible, it seemed. Once, when Aziraphale was behind him, he felt the flat of the angel’s sword touch the inside of his calf just below the knee. The metal was warm on his leg through the thin fabric of his stockings.

“Spread your legs a bit more, dear.” Aziraphale said sweetly, applying just a hint more pressure before pulling away again entirely. “Shoulder width apart will do.”

Staring resolutely ahead and clenching his jaw, Crowley obeyed. That angel was going to discorporate him one of these days if he kept talking to him like that. Demons didn’t blush. His corporation, on the other hand, seemed keen on catching on fire starting at around his cheekbones and ending midway down his chest. He had to act quickly, while Aziraphale was still behind him. A heart wasn’t a necessary thing for his vessel to have up and running all the time, and in the present circumstances, it was a liability. Crowley concentrated and suppressed its function. By the time Aziraphale was in front of him again—_he was not looking at him, he couldn’t_—the heat had more or less faded. This was the best-case scenario. When Aziraphale had told him to spread his legs, he felt all of the blood in his body begin a spontaneous migration with fifty-fifty odds of where it would end up. This time, he won the coin toss and it headed north towards his face. He didn’t know if he could survive it a second time. _Get it together, Crowley_.

On Aziraphale’s next rotation around, he took Crowley by the shoulder and shifted him, scolding him under his breath for slouching. It was then that an idea occurred to the demon. He gradually made small adjustments to his posture, his stance, the way he held his arm, all just the slightest bit off from how Aziraphale had positioned him. The angel noticed, of course, and single-mindedly shifted him back into position each time, but Crowley couldn’t tell if he’d caught on that he was doing this on purpose.

The next time he thought Aziraphale wasn’t looking, Crowley adjusted his grip on his sword, moving his index finger out from in front of the crosspiece and around the hilt again. When Aziraphale noticed, he wordlessly reached past the coiling serpent hilt to shift Crowley’s finger back where it belonged. The touch felt like it might have lingered a heartbeat longer than it needed to, but Crowley entertained the equally likely possibility that he was just so far gone that his perception of time had become skewed when it came to Aziraphale.

“And you have an offhand weapon with you. Excellent.” Aziraphale said, glancing at Crowley’s belt. He had a dagger there, and it certainly saw a lot more use than the sword ever did, mostly as a letter opener. He wrapped a hand around the grip, vaguely attempting to cover it up and delay the inevitable teasing from the angel that would come when he saw that it, too, was snake themed. Aziraphale waved a hand at him. “No, that’s quite alright for the moment, dear boy. I think it’s best to minimize the number of sharp edges in play at first, don’t you agree?”

Crowley shrugged, noncommittal, but did not draw the dagger.

“Right! Well, let us get underway.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and four rounded stones appeared around them, spaced twenty paces apart, to mark the corners of their space. He had to admire the angel’s commitment to appearances. Crowley had seen the boys in town use everything from wine bottles to handkerchiefs to, on one very drunken occasion, shoes. The stones were distinct enough for them to see, since they were expecting them, but would otherwise blend in. Anyone who caught them fighting here would have no reason to suspect that this meeting was planned. “Take care not to step outside the boundaries, my dear. As I understand it, that constitutes forfeiture.”

“Angel.” Crowley sighed. “Just because I haven’t fought a duel before doesn’t mean I don’t know the rules. What do you think I’ve been doing for the past month?”

“I can’t say I want to know everything you’ve been up to in that time, you wicked creature.” Aziraphale said mildly, pacing at his end of the square. He was smiling, but Crowley could see him fidgeting. “Shall we?”

“S’pose we should.” Crowley said, raising his sword again. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. What was he supposed to do? Just… go in swinging? He approached slowly, curving along the perimeter of their space. Aziraphale was mirroring him, keeping his distance. “Who goes first?”

“How… How about you show me how you’d begin, dear boy.”

They circled one another like orbiting stars, growing closer and closer until Crowley couldn’t take the waiting a second longer. He didn’t want to hurt the angel, so he hesitated as he took his first swipe at about knee level. As it turned out, he shouldn’t have worried. Aziraphale’s sword was down there faster than he fully registered, blocking his blow like an afterthought.

“You don’t have a scimitar, Crowley. There’s no need to hack at me like that.” Aziraphale said, pushing his blade away. “What you’re mostly going to want to be doing is a lot of thrusting.”

“Is that right?” He coughed, laughing. He jabbed this time, somewhere in the vague direction of Aziraphale’s shoulder. It was blocked easily.

“Enough of that, you beastly thing.” Aziraphale tutted. He didn’t quite look scandalized, but he’d put on at least a nominal display of it. “Crowley, your sunglasses hide where you’re looking—”

“D’you want me to take them off?” He offered, reaching up.

“No.” Aziraphale said quickly, and that stung more than he expected. “You have them on all the time. You’d more than likely be wearing them if anyone attacked you, so leave them on. Use them to your advantage.”

Thrust. Block. Aziraphale was making no moves to attack him in return. It seemed as if he’d handed all control of their pacing over to Crowley.

“Who’s going to be attacking me?” Thrust. Block. “I thought this duel tomorrow was supposed to be a one-off.”

“Let’s hope so.” Aziraphale said, deflecting again. “But Crowley. Your eyes are covered, and I can still see where you’re planning to strike.”

“What am I doing wrong?”

“You look where you aim. You look with your whole body. Don’t warn me. Try to only move your eyes.”

Crowley focused very hard on what his limbs and face were doing, but Aziraphale had an almost uncanny ability to anticipate his next moves. To make matters more frustrating, Crowley was leaping around attacking from every direction and Aziraphale was barely moving. He pivoted to face Crowley as he circled, but otherwise was fairly stationary. Thrust, block, thrust, block… all of Aziraphale's movement was in his arms and it was like he was barely trying.

“Watch where you put your feet, dear boy. You want to present a small target, and right now your whole chest is open.”

Crowley shifted, remembering the way he’d seen the duelists move, approaching sideways with arms outstretched. He had thought it looked a bit ridiculous at the time, watching them leap forward and away like cats. He was having a hard time reconciling that image with the way he’d always seen Aziraphale move—determined, methodical, direct.

“Hey, angel.” Thrust, block.

“Yes?” Again.

“Did you use one of these Upstairs?” He had yet to land a single hit. “How d’you know how to fight like this? Thought your old sword was bigger. Less… swishy.”

“My platoon trained in most forms of hand-to-hand combat.” Another bloody thrust. Another bloody block. “Even those that would not be on Earth for thousands of years.”

“Oh. _Your_ platoon, was it?” Crowley pressed. Aziraphale never spoke of the Great War in any detail, what his role in it had been. If he could get him on the wrong foot in the conversation, perhaps…

Aziraphale’s lips pursed, like he was contemplating what to say next. Crowley saw his opportunity and took it, lunging forward with his sword pointed directly for the angel’s heart.

With a twist of the angel’s wrist, faster than Crowley was able to react against, his sword spun up to meet the attack, but this time Aziraphale didn’t settle for just stopping the blade. Crowley noticed that his grip was loosening, fingers pulling apart, wrist twisting, and then the sword was wrenched from his grip and tumbled, useless, to the ground. Crowley himself tipped after it, reaching for where it fell, and suddenly gravity upended itself. He was dimly aware, for just a moment, that Aziraphale had stepped very close to him, that they had touched, that—_that the bastard had tripped him_.

“You tripped me, you bastard.” He managed, intelligently. He’d been aiming for it to sound mocking, to point out the hypocrisy of the angel’s underhanded tactic, but with all the wind knocked from his lungs he only managed to sound surprised and a little whiney.

“I did,” Aziraphale said, looking down at him with amusement, sword canted primly to the side. “Though given how poor your stance was towards the end, I’m wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d managed to trip yourself first.”

The angel was radiating an aura of smugness, bright as the sun—no, actually, that was just the sun. Crowley squinted, fixing his glasses where they’d been knocked askew. When he had originally seen how far outside the city Aziraphale was leading them, he’d let himself speculate briefly about what the angel had been planning that required privacy. Now, he found himself very grateful for their isolation, not for any of the salacious and unlikely reasons his imagination had cooked up, or even because his eyes had been exposed, but because apparently the angel had brought him out here just to make a fool of him. When he landed, he’d landed hard. His backside stung a bit from the impact, and he didn’t even want to think about the ass print of pale dust that would be clinging to the black velvet of his breeches when he stood up.

“I appreciate a change in scenery now and again,” Crowley said, unclenching his jaw enough to be heard, “But if your plan was to just insult me, angel, we could have stayed in town.”

“My intention was to teach, not to insult, but I had no way of knowing how much work I’d have to do.” Aziraphale sighed theatrically, brushing the edge of his immaculate doublet out of what must be habit at this point. “Really, my dear. Looking at you, one would almost think you’d never done this before.”

Crowley felt frustration rankle under his skin like a flicker of Hellfire, twined together with the deeper thrum of humiliation. He didn’t want to hurt the angel, that wasn’t it at all. He never had wanted to. That had been one of his first mistakes up on Earth, he supposed, just more evidence of how defective he was as a demon. He didn’t want to hurt him, but he also didn’t want Aziraphale talking to him like that, like he was… what? What did the angel see in him that made him want to play teacher like this? He talked about it like it was all professional, all about ensuring the survival of the Arrangement, but Crowley had learned over the centuries that when Aziraphale spoke of their partnership, most of what the angel meant was left unsaid. So why, then? Was it shame, or pride, or some mix of the two that made Aziraphale concerned with the weakness of his adversary? Was it pity? Whatever it was, Crowley couldn’t stand to be looked at like he was some feeble, foolish thing to be helped along.

He’d been playing by Aziraphale’s rules all this time, but rules were for people who weren’t Crowley. Surely the angel knew that, had known what he was getting into when he brought him up here. Surely he would reconsider his opinion if he got the chance to see Crowley as he truly was: quick, unpredictable, able to be dangerous if he wanted to be. Aziraphale had said something earlier, something about an offhand weapon…

His hand twitched to his belt, fast as a snake’s strike, and Crowley pushed himself off the ground towards the angel with a dagger in his grip and a snarl on his lips—until he felt the press of Aziraphale’s sword against his belly. It was a light touch, and Aziraphale’s tight little smile told him it was intended to be a reminder rather than a threat. He’d moved so quickly Crowley had barely registered the flash of steel in the sun. Crowley sank back onto his elbows, letting his abandoned dagger sit loose in its sheath. He’d barely even been able to draw it out halfway.

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “Dirty tricks.”

“Demon.” Crowley responded, shrugging as broadly as he could manage with the point of a sword pressed up against him.

“I’m not scolding you for trying it. I’m just shocked you’d think it would work.”

“_I’m_ shocked, Aziraphale. I’d never have taken you for one to condone,” He wiggled a hand as he searched for the right word, one that he could use to ridicule the angel’s slavish devotion to following the rules, and landed on one that was close enough for his purposes, “_Ungentlemanly conduct_.”

“These humans have all these notions of honor in combat, but I can assure you, there is no such thing. There’s no shame in fighting with what you were given, especially when you have to fight someone a lot stronger and a lot more skilled than yourself.” Aziraphale held up a hand to hush Crowley’s indignant sputtering. “It isn’t bragging if it’s true, Crowley. I am a warrior of the Lord. There would be no way for you to win against me in a fair fight… though of course there really isn’t such a thing as a fair fight at all. Not in a true battle, I mean, not this ritualized combat the humans are so fond of this century.”

“So, you’re telling me that you, a _warrior of the Lord_,” Crowley sneered the words, “Are in favor of, what? Cheating? Fighting dirty?”

“Of course not.” Aziraphale sniffed. “I cannot cheat or… fight dirty. Those are human distinctions. Everything I do in service of Her is righteous.”

“Of course.” Crowley rolled his eyes.

“But we aren’t talking about me, here, Crowley. We were talking about you. You are not in the army of Heaven. You are a demon—”

“As you are so fond of reminding me.” Crowley hissed through his teeth.

“—And as such I could never condemn you for using underhanded tactics. It’s in your nature. I am only commenting on the fact that you are, to put it delicately, somewhat bad at it.”

“Look, angel, if this is all this is going to be, I think I’m going to head back—” Crowley started to get up, but the point of Aziraphale’s sword nudged him again. “Or not, then. I guess.”

“Dirty tricks like that only work when you have the ability to surprise your opponent. You were rather obvious about the whole thing.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in a way that was clearly intended to communicate sympathy but still managed to be insulting. “You have to learn how to watch them, to really see the person you’re fighting. Once you know how to do that, you can predict their moves before they make them, find an opening, and _then_ strike, when it will count.”

“If I didn’t know better, angel, I would say it sounded like you were offering to teach me how to cheat at dueling.”

“I am offering to teach you how to make less of a fool of yourself the next time you get yourself into a situation where you have to fight someone.” The look Aziraphale gave him was pointed, but not cruel. “The next person you fight might not be as forgiving of a mistake like that as I am.”

“You know, angel,” He drawled, “The only reason I’m having to bother with this at all is because I’m going to be fighting you. Historically, most of the people who’ve attacked me have been humans, and its not like they’re that much of a threat. I can miracle my way out of anything.”

“Don’t underestimate them, Crowley. Any one of them could discorporate you if they took you by surprise.”

“I’ll try not to let them, then.” Crowley shrugged, watching the tension flicker and fade on Aziraphale’s face. “I work for Hell. I’m used to watching my back. Hard to surprise, me.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale began, moving his sword to his side, “But—”

Crowley cut him off, extending a hand for help off the ground. “Besides, I’m not completely useless even without miracles. I still have my… what did you call them? My _dirty tricks_.”

It wasn’t Crowley’s fault, at least not completely. Aziraphale had been practically encouraging him to cheat. What was he expecting when he reached down and wrapped his warm, soft hand around a demon’s? Crowley strained a little as if struggling to pull himself to his feet, and when Aziraphale leaned down just a little further, he tightened his grip like a vise and rocked backwards with all his strength. If the ground, specifically the two patches directly beneath Aziraphale’s boots, became slick and soggy at that moment, it must have been a coincidence. The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, was pulled to the ground and landed in an ungraceful slump in the dirt.

Giddy that it had actually worked, Crowley rolled over and pinned Aziraphale’s arms to the ground. He was about to start teasing him, but all the breath went out of him when he realized that the angel was unnaturally still. A ragged spike of anxiety tore through him. He couldn’t see Aziraphale’s expression. He’d landed face down, head turned away, but he had to be scared, didn’t he? Angry? Disgusted? Crowley had gone too far, he’d broken that little seedling of trust growing between them, he’d ruined everything. The Arrangement was still so new, only a few centuries old, and he’d just destroyed any hope of the angel wanting to see him again. He hadn’t hurt him, he thought, it didn’t seem like the kind of thing that would hurt… but what if he had hurt him? Crowley needed to leave, and soon, now, before Aziraphale asked him to go. He could at least do that. He could still prove that this wasn’t the prelude to an attack, or a betrayal, that he was willing to go away for as long as he wanted…

Underneath Crowley’s splayed, frozen hands, Aziraphale was shaking. Crowley only just had time to begin panicking about that revelation when the angel spoke and the reality of what was happening hit him.

Aziraphale was laughing.

“Excellent job, dear boy.” Came his muffled voice. “You saw an opening, and you took it.”

“I—angel?” Crowley stammered, pulling his hands away. He was afraid to move more than that.

“Well, let’s get on with it. Now that you have me down here, what are you going to do about it?” Aziraphale’s voice was entirely too chipper to be saying things like that, things that were able to shock the chorus of anxious screaming in Crowley’s mind into silence.

Apparently, he waited too long to reply, because Aziraphale rolled over without another word and took Crowley with him. He shouldn’t have been surprised with how strong the angel was. He’d seen him at the beginning of the world, before they’d even spoken, sealing the gate to Eden and lifting boulders like they weighed nothing. That foreknowledge did nothing to keep him from gasping when he found _himself_ handled like that—not roughly, but with a kind of confident strength that he knew he’d never be able to match. Crowley’s hands were delicate, the hands of an artist, shaped for shaping the stars—though of course these days they created nothing more than trouble. In that moment, Crowley was keenly aware of the fact that Aziraphale’s hands, first on his shoulders and then on the backs of his arms as their positions were reversed, were the hands of a soldier.

Crowley’s theory that his demonic survival instincts were disappearing was confirmed beyond any doubt a moment later when he felt Aziraphale’s solid weight press into his back. What he should have felt in that moment was fear. It was not. Hands on his arms, legs straddling his hips… it was a mercy he’d been pinned down on his stomach. He felt his heartrate kick up, felt heat sear all the way up his scalp, and he vowed to never move from this position again for as long as he lived. He’d been right about an earlier assumption, too. He thought he could not have survived something like this from Aziraphale more than once, and he hadn’t. He’d lost the coin toss. He was discorporated, maybe even dead. He was, at the very least, mortified and uncomfortably turned on.

“Are you just going to lie there, Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice cut through the uninterrupted groan that was Crowley’s entire inner monologue. He sounded exhilarated, like he was having a dreadful amount of fun back there, and Crowley had to bargain with the ravening hunger inside his brain. _You know it doesn’t mean anything, I know it doesn’t mean anything_, he begged of his own mind, _I’ll remember what that voice sounds like, I promise, just back off and let me think again!_

“Did I land on you too hard, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, when he had still not moved. He shifted and the touch of his hands and the weight pressing Crowley into the dirt disappeared. Crowley was briefly dismayed at this loss, but then he felt Aziraphale’s hands on him again. One on his shoulder. One on his hip. Crowley knew what he was about to do. The angel was about to flip him over, and that _could not_ be allowed to happen. He did the only thing he could think to do in that moment.

He changed.

Aziraphale yelped a little in surprise as the demon beneath his hands contracted, stretched, and manifested scales. He did not let go. It occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale had never touched him like this, when he was a serpent, and now he knew he’d never be able to forget what it felt like to have the warmth of those hands sink into his cold-blooded core. For a moment of panicked confusion, Crowley forgot they were supposed to be fighting. This was a fight. They were fighting. He was supposed to be escaping Aziraphale’s grapple, and he was a snake, and Aziraphale still had a hold on him.

Crowley twisted his long neck around past Aziraphale’s left hand and thrashed, bucking the hand off of his smooth scales. Aziraphale moved to grab him again, but he wrapped himself around the angel’s arm, around his chest, squeezing tight enough to hold but not to harm. Like this, coiled around him as a snake, Crowley could acutely feel Aziraphale’s laughter piercing him like the peals of church bells. _Satan_, it was even warmer like this. It was a bit easier to deal with touch like this than in his usual form, but he knew sunbathing would never feel as satisfying again after today.

“Alright, enough of this.” Aziraphale said, looking around himself to try and locate Crowley’s head. He could hear the smile in his voice. “Let go now. Your scales tickle something dreadful, you know.”

Crowley unspooled himself from the angel’s body and slithered onto the ground.

“Are you ready to get back to it?” Crowley could barely look at him like this, eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

“It… takesssss a bit to change back,” He lied, still reeling, “Sssssometimess. Need a ssssssecond.”

“Of course, take your time.” Aziraphale cast his eyes towards the sky, then retrieved his sword where it had fallen. “Perhaps a break is in order? We’ve been at this for a while.”

“Ssssure.” Any other time, Crowley would have teased Aziraphale for his typically oblique way of asking for a drink and some nibbles, but in the moment, he was grateful for the opportunity to slither away and relocate his dignity and whatever remained of his ability for coherent thought.

“I can see that you are getting a bit tired of just doing what I tell you to.” Aziraphale said, snapping his fingers. Two bottles of wine appeared in the shade of a nearby tree. From this distance, and with the eyes Crowley had to work with in this form, it was hard to tell what exactly he’d summoned. Something white, but that was just a guess. Next to it, much more readily identifiable, was a plate of cheeses and sliced figs.

“Noticccced that, did you?”

Aziraphale put his sword away and shook his head fondly at Crowley’s predictable bristling. “I want to try again, after we’ve had a moment. I’m interested to see how you fare on defense.”

“Haven’t been dissscorporated yet.” Crowley said as he slithered along on the ground beside Aziraphale. The angel moved out of the sun and settled against the roots of the tree. “More than a few tried it. Hisssstorically, I fare pretty well.”

Aziraphale frowned at that but managed to school his expression into pleasant neutrality. “Can you drink alcohol like this?” He asked, uncorking one of the bottles of wine. Crowley noticed that, seemingly out of habit, he’d reached for both cups before asking. “As a serpent, I mean.”

“I’ve tried,” He replied, crawling up the trunk of the tree and stretching himself between a pair of branches. The sun on his scales was a poor substitute now that he knew of the alternative, but the heat still began to lull his thoughts into submission. “Doesssn’t feel good like thissss. I’ll wait 'til I can turn back.”

Aziraphale poured himself a cup. “Suit yourself, dear boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to wrangle this monster of a chapter into something readable for like ten days now, and then it occurred to me that I could just split it into two chapters and focus on it in halves like a human person.
> 
> 🍳 < This is your brain on graduate school, y'all.


	3. Deflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale continue their lesson, but Aziraphale clearly has more reasons for wanting to do this than Crowley can figure out.

Looking down at Aziraphale from his perch in the tree, Crowley slowly felt himself calming down. He was aware of the general direction the conversation had taken, but he had been too distracted to follow it with any degree of precision. As could be expected, the angel was talking about the litany of places he’d visited since they’d last spoken, with special attention paid to the foods and alcohols he’d encountered in each place. Although Crowley had been curious about what Aziraphale had been up to all this time, it took some time before he was able to concentrate enough to absorb a single word of it.

Once he was able to feel a semblance of trust in himself again, Crowley slithered back to the ground and resumed his more humanoid form. He arranged himself on the ground in the shade of the tree, legs sprawled out in front of him, and took the cup of wine he was offered. The spot he had chosen was—well, he shouldn’t call it a _respectable distance_ away from the angel, should he? That carried the implication that he was respectable, and that wouldn’t do. There was distance, though, carefully chosen to be both as far away as he could make himself go while still being near enough to torture himself with the proximity. It was fine. This was fine. Better than fine, really. They were close enough to share a bottle, but not close enough for Crowley to make the mistake of physical contact again.

Sitting on the ground like this, folded almost in half over his own knees so he could watch the angel in profile, Crowley was able to see what he had missed from up in the branches overhead: like Crowley, Aziraphale was also gradually settling into something resembling calm. The change was easy to miss, but there was nowhere else he was interested in looking. Whereas Crowley had perfected a certain languid contrapposto long before it ever got that name, Aziraphale always carried himself like his spine was made of a solid, straight piece of steel. Even here, sitting on the dirty ground, he looked as poised as he would at a state dinner. Crowley knew him, though. He knew him well. He had a mental catalog of Aziraphale’s tics and tells backdating thousands of years, and he could watch him slowly, subtly relax by studying the curve of his lip and the way he held his hands. He had noticed the angel had been tense earlier, but it took until Crowley watched that tension fade for him to see the measure of how much had been there before.

What Crowley did not know was _why_, exactly, Aziraphale had been so tense. After all, this whole exercise had been his idea. Asking him about it would be pointless, though. Aziraphale would either deny it or try to feed him the company line about vigilance in the presence of the enemy. He wondered if he was simply uneasy with the idea of fighting in general, but Crowley had his doubts. With Aziraphale, things were seldom simple.

“Would you like some?” Aziraphale asked, holding out a slice of fig.

Crowley didn’t particularly, and he might have declined if the angel had held out the whole plate for him to choose a bite for himself, but it was another story entirely when the fig was offered to him from out of Aziraphale’s hand. With a nod, he took the slice and swallowed it whole. Certain snake habits die hard, after all. He instantly regretted his decision when he watched Aziraphale’s lips close around the tips of his plump fingers as he sucked the juice from the hand Crowley had just touched.

He had never understood the fascination the humans had with the myth of the “Adam’s apple”. After all, it was just a quirk of their biology, and Crowley never saw why so many of them implicated him for _that_ out of all things. In that moment, though, as he felt that slice of fig hitch and then slowly drag through his suddenly very tight throat, Crowley developed a new appreciation for the story. He drained the rest of his wine and poured himself a second cup.

Although Aziraphale had gotten a few cups in him by the time his drinking companion decided to stop being a snake, it didn’t take long before Crowley was able to catch up with him. Their talk stayed light and casual for the duration of the first bottle, and it wasn’t until after the angel used a minor miracle to open the second that he even brought up the duel at all.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale asked, leaning over to fill Crowley’s cup.

“Mmm?”

“You have… you have done this before, yes?”

Crowley exhaled before he spoke, almost a laugh. “Dueling?” Aziraphale inclined his head in answer. Crowley’s earlier flicker of embarrassment tried to resurface, but it was hard to feel through the pleasant buzz he’d been steadily working towards. “Thought we already established I hadn’t.”

“I don’t mean dueling, at least not… only dueling.” Aziraphale sighed deeply and fixed Crowley with an unreadable stare. “Have you ever had to… have you ever been involved in a physical altercation, Crowley?”

“Yeah,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “‘course.”

Aziraphale chuckled, too quickly for Crowley to think of it as being fully casual. “I had assumed that you must have. With your line of work, it seemed likely that you would have, at some point.”

“Well, yeah. Real waste of time, though. Best to leave the humans to all that, is what I say.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale nodded. “But, these altercations. With the humans, when they do happen. You’ve… won?”

Crowley stretched out his legs in front of him and scowled at the angel. “Do I look like I’m in the habit of letting humans push me around?”

“I’m declining to answer that.” Aziraphale looked sideways at Crowley while he sipped his wine.

“That thing you did, where you twisted my sword out of my hand and knocked me down, I admit. I am impressed.” Crowley saw the way the angel’s smile brightened at that and hurried to correct course lest he be blinded by it. “A bit. Don’t let it inflate your head. But it isn’t like you’re a typical person, angel. D’you think a human could have done that?”

“Frankly, yes. I did not use a miracle, you’ll notice. Any human with enough practice could have done what I did. That wasn’t angelic strength, my dear boy.”

“Ah, so you’re holding yourself back, then?” He drawled.

“Naturally.”

“I’d hate to see what it would look like to see you fully angelic, then. I can kind of imagine it, though, if I close my eyes.” Crowley laughed and took another drink, closing his eyes as much to savor the wine as to savor teasing Aziraphale. “Flaming sword and all that. I wonder… wouldja tell me to _be not afraid_?”

Aziraphale didn’t immediately answer, and when Crowley looked back at him, he saw the angel’s hand clenched tight around the cork from the bottle. How long he’d been holding onto it was anyone’s guess, but he was currently in the process of picking it apart with a carefully manicured thumbnail. When he caught Crowley looking at it, Aziraphale offered up a serene smile and vanished it from sight.

“So.” Aziraphale cleared his throat and made a performance of picking out a piece of cheese from the plate. He was almost finished with his nibbles now, this pretext for their break and conversation. Soon, only the alcohol would remain, though for beings such as the two of them, it would not run out until they wanted it to. “In your experience. Mostly humans, then?”

“Mostly.”

“And how does that work, typically?”

“You know humans, angel. Easy to misdirect. If they’re particularly keen, though, I usually just do what I did to you.”

“Use a demonic miracle to make them fall over?” Aziraphale’s tone was scolding, but there was a hint of a smile threatening to make an appearance at the corners of his lips.

“Or something like that. Spiders in their hair, visions of damnation, knife that decides to heat up in their hand. There’re a lot of options. I can get creative with it, if I want.” Crowley shrugged. “Something to keep that wrath and so forth stoked, but just not sent in my direction. ‘Course, if they’re a real nasty one, I can just send ‘em somewhere else.”

“It seems,” Aziraphale said, “like a lot of avoidance.”

“Isn’t that what you do, angel? Avoidance?” Crowley leaned in closer. “I haven’t seen you personally fight a human since… what was it? Northumbria?”

Aziraphale made a noncommittal noise. Crowley knew better by now than to expect to get anything more than that from him. He’d long learned that asking him to examine his own hypocrisies, no matter how small, came with the risk of chasing the angel off. Instead, he sighed and leaned back against the trunk of the tree, one hand supporting his head.

“’Course, sometimes it happens anyway. But again, they’re humans.” He rolled his eyes, not that it would matter. He had absolutely no intention of taking those sunglasses off any time soon. “It’s not like it’s difficult. I can always just tilt things in my favor a bit. None of ‘em have been able to discorporate me yet, so I’d say it’s a method that tends to work out in my favor.”

“What about…” Aziraphale took a drink, a little too fast. He wiped a drip from his chin. “Have you ever quarreled with another demon, then?”

Crowley sucked in his breath between his teeth. “Sure, yeah. They’re a, ah. Quarrelsome bunch.”

“I assume it’s more difficult to avoid a fight with a determined demon than it is a human.” The angel gave him an indulgent smile, like he was unaware of the danger that lie in this kind of talk.

He made a drawn-out noise that did little more than buy him time before saying, “More difficult, not impossible.”

“And when you cannot avoid them… has it ever come to blows?”

“What d’you think, angel?” Crowley snorted into his cup. “They’re not big fans of peaceful conflict resolution Downstairs.”

Aziraphale looked down, but not before Crowley could see him frown. The angel took a long drink, holding the cup with both hands. He only spoke again when he was busying himself with the bottle to top himself off. “The sword, then… I take it that it isn’t your normal weapon of choice?”

“Nope. Haven’t ever really had a reason to use one before now, so I never learned all the,” Crowley gestured with his cup as he tried to find the words, a thin dribble of wine spilling out and onto his wrist, “All the stuff. Footwork, hand placement. All that.”

“Not ever?”

“Never saw any need to pick it up.”

Aziraphale made a surprised face in that perfectly animated way of his that would have seemed sarcastic coming from anyone else. “Not in more than five millennia?”

“Nah. No need, really.”

“I would have thought—” Aziraphale cut himself off.

“What?”

“It’s nothing. An assumption I should not have made. Forget I said anything.”

“Well, you have to say it now, then.” Crowley said, giving Aziraphale his most tempting smile. He was joking, mostly. He knew there was a limit to how hard he could press for information with the angel, but he always savored the chance to hear Aziraphale’s first thoughts, the ones he often later tried to bury with excuses and denials. Crowley watched Aziraphale’s face in profile as he worked out first whether or not to speak, and then—Crowley felt a thrill of satisfaction as the angel’s mouth opened and closed—how to say whatever it was.

“It’s just,” He began, looking a bit stricken, “Well, it has rather been a bit _more_ than five millennia, hasn’t it?”

“Sure, yeah. Give or take a few centuries.”

“That’s not quite what I mean.” Aziraphale watched him as though hoping Crowley would be able to read his mind, and when he was met only with a confused shake of the head, he folded his hands in his lap and frowned. “It’s just. Yes, that’s how long you’ve been on Earth… but you weren’t always… well. _Here_. Silly of me, I know, to make assumptions about what I didn’t see. I thought everyone must have been given some sort of… Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.”

“You’ve got to understand, angel.” Crowley began, tilting his head back to stare at nothing. “Early days… I wasn’t Downstairs long enough to pick up a whole new skillset. When you’re told to _get up there and make some trouble_, you don’t get to take your time about it.”

When he spoke next, Aziraphale’s voice was barely audible. “I was… I was thinking a bit further back than that, dear.”

“Don’t ask me about Before.” Crowley snarled.

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t have said anything.” His tone was so careful, so openly apologetic, Crowley could barely stand it.

“Look,” He said, scrubbing his hands over his face, “I don’t know what’s so hard to understand about this. No. I’ve never done this before, not even Before. They didn’t give all of us a bloody flaming sword, angel.”

He thought that this would be the end of it, but _Satan_, Aziraphale had latched onto this idea and showed no idea of letting go any time soon. “But… the Great War? Not even then?”

“Can’t say I was doing much hand-to-hand combat,” He began, hoping that a measured dose of honesty would be enough to convince the angel to move on, “It. It, er. Went fast, kind of. Minding my own business and then there were trumpets and flashes of holy light and the next thing I knew…” He trailed off, making a vague gesture with his hand. “Freefall.”

“…Ah.”

“Yup.” Crowley responded, turning his full attention to the wine in his cup that had been steadily increasing its percentage of alcohol by volume for the last five minutes. “Look, can we talk about something else?”

“Of course, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, tripping over something in his voice Crowley hoped was not pity, “I never intended to—I’m terribly sorry, I—”

“Stop. Don’t worry about it, it’s fine.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s nothing. We can talk. I want to talk, I…” Crowley pressed his lips together and swallowed before he could say something he’d regret. “Just… ask me something else.”

The pause before Aziraphale spoke was too short for Crowley to think he hadn’t already had a second question in mind. “Do you think we...?” He trailed off, unable to voice the rest, but Crowley didn't need him to. He understood.

“Up there?” He gave him a long look. “Nah. Never saw you before Eden.”

“Are you sure?” The angel’s voice was quiet and uncertain.

“’Course I am. I don't remember a lot from, well... Point is, we didn't. If we had, that's the kind of thing I—” Crowley bit his lip. “Different departments. Different supervisors. Never crossed paths.”

Crowley looked down, suddenly finding eye contact unbearable, even with the sunglasses between them. Looking at Aziraphale's hands was almost worse. They were busy twisting and worrying the bottom hem of his doublet like he was trying to wear a hole through it. Crowley knew why the answer to that question was important to _him_, but he didn’t know with any certainty why it mattered so much to Aziraphale, why it was making him so anxious. Was he nervous, after all this time, that he might have traveled in the same circles as those who would Fall? Was he wondering if, had they met, had they been friends, he might have Fallen, too?

That kind of thinking made Crowley antsy, and he rolled his cup between his palms just to have something to do with that energy. They hadn't met, so it didn't matter, and Aziraphale was a good enough angel that it would not matter now how often he walked by the side of a demon. They hadn't met. Crowley's memories from before the Fall were hazy at best, but he knew he'd never met Aziraphale. He would have remembered that, no matter how much his crash landing into boiling sulfur scrambled in his head. He'd lost his own first given name, but he couldn't have forgotten that smile.

For a few moments, they drank together in tense silence. Aziraphale was the one to finally break it. “Demons!” He said, his tone too bright for that word, no matter how artificial the cheer in his voice sounded.

“What about them?”

“Your… quarrels. You might not have much in the way of formal training, but you’ve been clever enough to avoid serious harm.” Aziraphale’s smile was too brittle to last for long under the stare Crowley gave him in response.

“What are you getting at, angel?”

“I’m trying to ascertain what you know already, dear boy, that’s all,” he said in a tone that indicated that this was far from _all_ it was, “for the lesson. If I knew what weapons you’ve had practice with, I can… I can inform what I show you based on your prior experiences.”

“Bit hard to do, that. It's not like there are any kind of rules to that sort of a thing.” Crowley paused for a moment, trying to determine how much to let on. “They tend to be more of teeth-and-claws crowd, anyway.”

“And. How does that normally… proceed?”

“If I’m faster than they are, it doesn’t. If I’m not…” Crowley tapped his leg. “Well, it’s not like we’re allowed to kill each other, right? They get bored eventually.”

“_Crowley_.” Aziraphale gasped.

“Don’t look at me like that, angel,” Crowley groaned, leaning back until he felt his head thunk into the tree trunk behind him, “That’s just how Hell is.”

“I—I’ve been quite insensitive today, I think, dear boy,” Aziraphale said in that fluttery tone of his he used whenever he was trying to appease someone, “I’m s—”

“Don’t,” Crowley warned, “S’nothing you did. It’s just what it is. It’s just one big pissing contest. And m’not a Duke or anything. There’s not much I can do about it. Can’t really make a complaint about it to HR.” He gave a hollow laugh as he flicked at the ribbon holding up his stocking. “I mean, Satan likes me. Eden and all that. But that only goes so far. More work, really, and the others really hate it when he gives me some special assignment.”

“Crowley, dear, believe me. I had no idea. You… you deserve—” There it was. Pity, undeniable. This Crowley could not abide.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I know, I had no right to pry—”

“No,” Crowley said, pushing off from the tree to look at Aziraphale directly, “Why are you doing all of this? Teaching me?”

“I thought that we’d already established that…” Aziraphale trailed off and tried to wrangle his tone and posture into something more sanctimonious. “Well, as I recall, we are doing this because you decided to insinuate yourself into an already trying situation.”

“It’s a duel. Should be easy enough to fake, right?” Crowley pressed, relishing the chance to turn the scrutiny back onto Aziraphale for once, “Why’re you going to all this trouble? And don’t tell me it’s all a show for our bosses. You know as well as I do, they haven’t been paying attention to a bloody thing we’re doing.”

Aziraphale set his jaw and for a moment anger flickered across his face. “What happens if you get discorporated, hm?”

“Hasn’t happened yet.”

“And what if it does? You can’t just… miracle yourself out of every situation you find yourself in!”

“You’re seriously underestimating my ability to miracle my way out of things, angel.”

“It only takes one time, Crowley! One time when you aren’t fast enough, or we get too comfortable...” His whole body was rigid, like he was trying very hard to control himself, but Crowley could hear a note of panic behind his words. “It only takes once.”

“Angel,” he began, once he was able to close his mouth again, “Aziraphale…” He wanted to say something to soothe that anxiety away, to offer some kind of comfort, but his words dried up. He didn’t know where to begin. What did a demon know of comfort?

“I’m just… trying to help.” Aziraphale said, deflating a little.

_Humor! I might not know how to do much else_, Crowley thought, _but I can do humor._

“I’m shocked at you, angel,” He began, sliding down into a full sprawl and clutching a hand to his chest in mock horror, “Helping the enemy.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked up to meet his and Crowley saw that—thank Someone—he looked rather annoyed. Annoyance was familiar. Annoyance he could work with, annoyance he could turn first into a begrudging smile and then into a real one. He’d had thousands of years of practice with the angel’s annoyance.

“Crowley, this isn’t a joke.”

“It could be,” Crowley said, grinning, “Just gotta laugh about it.”

“Crowley, you have to know that—” Aziraphale gave an exasperated sigh. “I am _not_ helping _the enemy_.”

“You sure about that? Because to me it looks like—”

“I’m helping _you_, Crowley.”

He didn’t need to breathe, but he felt all the oxygen leave his body at the sound of those words as if he’d been punched. Between the intensity of the angel’s eyes on him and the weight of what he just said, Crowley felt unmoored.

“Aziraphale.” He began again, still damnably breathless, but then he caught sight of the way the angel’s expression was changing. Closing off. Pulling away. There were rules they never spoke aloud, but that they both understood regardless. He didn’t know quite how Aziraphale felt about him, but he’d had a suspicion now for the last few centuries that he considered Crowley a friend. They could never say that, though. It had to all be business, nothing personal, there always had to be a ready excuse behind each meeting, each word… but this. This was unmistakably personal, and for once, Aziraphale hadn’t come prepared with an excuse. There was a line here that they never crossed. Crowley never knew quite where Aziraphale’s was, he never knew quite what was behind it, but he got the feeling that he was watching the angel toe up against it in this moment… and if he didn’t do something quickly, Aziraphale would leave.

“So, your plan is to… what, exactly?” Crowley said, keeping the words light as he could. “Turn me into some kind of… fearsome demonic warrior?”

He heard a quiet sound, like an exhale from the nose, like the ghost of a laugh. It was a start. “I have faith in my abilities as a teacher, dear boy, but I don’t think even I could do that.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. I’d wager that by the time you’re done with me, I could make quite a nuisance of myself.”

He watched as Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut and the corner of his lip twitched. “You hardly need my help for that, you old serpent.”

“Oh no, angel. I think you’re doing a fine job of expanding my career opportunities.” Crowley folded his arms behind his head and wriggled until he was laying down flat on the ground under the tree. “Y’know, after I’m done here, I think I’ll try my hand at piracy.”

“Oh, good Lord.”

“You can see it, right? All that…” He raised a hand into the air and pantomimed a flourish and jab with an invisible sword. “Swashbuckling. Battles on the high seas.”

Aziraphale chuckled, so quietly it was almost covered up by the sound of his pouring another cup of wine. Crowley exhaled, and with it went some of the high whine of anxiety that had taken up residence in his mind. He wasn’t leaving, at least not yet.

“It’s actually rather boring, you know,” he said, “being at sea. There’s typically quite a whole lot of nothing to do most of the time and I know that, my dear boy, would drive you to madness. Within the week, if I’m being generous.”

“Woe be unto my crew then,” Crowley drawled, “Trapped onboard with a bored demon. Imagine the trouble I could get up to.”

“_Your_ crew?” Aziraphale said as he settled back against the tree trunk. “You’re the captain in this absurd fantasy of yours, now?”

“Don’t see why not.”

“Well, then, Captain Crowley. Where are you going to get your ship?”

“Figured I’d find some other pirate and, well. You know.” He wiggled again. “Swashbuckle him for it.”

He heard a wet sputter that sounded quite a bit like Aziraphale inhaled the wine he was drinking. Crowley pushed himself up on an elbow and twisted around to watch, but whatever mess had been made was miracled away before he could get a good look. The angel was a bit pink in the face and making an effort to appear cross, but Crowley knew better.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You know, I think I like the sound of that. _Captain Crowley_. S’got a nice ring to it.” He said, grinning. It actually did, now that he heard it. The fact that Aziraphale had been the one to say it was mostly unrelated. “I could get an earring, too. Look the part.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Of course that’s what you’d be thinking about, you vain creature.”

Crowley raised a hand. “Guilty. Gotta keep my sin quota up, and that’s one of the easy ones.”

“Foul fiend.”

“But, angel. If that’s vanity,” he teased, tapping his own earlobe, “what d’you call that pearl you’ve got?”

Aziraphale feigned affront. “It’s _fashion_.”

“Sure,” Crowley said, snorting, “So, when I’m prowling the seas as the fearsome pirate Captain Crowley—”

“You’ll probably fall overboard and get swallowed by a whale.”

“It worked out alright for Jonah.” He quipped, and Aziraphale answered him with a long-suffering look while he took a drink of his wine. “So, when I’m plundering Spanish galleons and spreading discord, are you gonna come put an end to my wicked ways?”

“… I may.” Aziraphale punctuated his words with another prim sip.

“You could fight me again,” Crowley said, leaning in and whispering conspiratorially, “Could be fun.”

“I-I rather think,” Aziraphale said, swallowing and setting down his cup, “That the… _fun_… of sparring comes from the challenge and skill. You seem to be getting a bit ahead of yourself.”

By now, Crowley actually was buzzed enough to take the teasing in stride. “S’what makes it a good idea. Think about it. We could make it a Thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah, why not? Lots of excuses to fight, and every time I’ll get better.” Crowley looked at him over the top of his sunglasses. “Sooner or later, I bet I could even… what’d you call it? _Trounce you_.”

“Really, Crowley, I—” Aziraphale straightened his shoulders and clasped his hands in his lap, tight. “Isn’t once enough?”

“Well, you _said_ it gets fun when there’s a challenge,” He pointed out, groping blindly for his own cup, unwilling to look away, “And besides, isn’t this what we’re supposed to be doing, anyway? Hereditary enemies and all that?”

“That’s… Be that as it may—”

“It’s the whole _Great Plan_, innit? All they keep telling us. Angels, demons. Gotta fight each other. S’the whole point…”

Crowley trailed off, noticing Aziraphale’s hands. His fingers were spinning his ring again, not even bothering to hide it behind his back like he usually did when he got like this, like this was something he barely realized he was doing.

“It is.” He said, his voice strangely clipped.

“Angel, what’s wrong? Was it something I…?” His hand collided with his cup and knocked it over. He felt the cool spread of wine as it was absorbed by the fabric of his sleeve, followed immediately by the colder spread of realization at what he’d implied. Crowley could have screamed at himself. “Armageddon?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. The fear on his face said it all, and Crowley didn’t flatter himself by thinking it was fear of him as a combatant. Or, at least, that wasn’t all of it. It wasn’t that he feared Crowley, or even that feared that kind of betrayal from him. It was… _Oh._

“Oh, come on, angel. You know I wouldn’t fight you. Not for real, not then.” Crowley pulled himself upright and sat cross-legged across from the angel. He wanted to move closer, but he didn’t dare, especially not now, not after he’d ruined this. “You know me. If I’ve got anything, it’s self-preservation instincts. When the time comes, I’m gonna do my best to keep low, try not to fight anyone at all.”

“Do you promise me that, Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was a little lower, a little rougher than Crowley expected.

The naked hurt in his expression was also unexpected. There was something else happening here, something Crowley couldn’t understand without resorting to willful self-delusion, but long gone were the days when he could deny Aziraphale anything he asked for.

“Sure. Of course.”

Aziraphale nodded, his eyes closed. He stood up, and then Crowley’s heart was in his throat. He’d messed up, said the wrong thing, pushed too hard… He’d been too much, and now the angel was walking away.

He’d almost made it out of the clearing when he hesitated. Crowley wanted to call out to him, to ask him to stay for just a little longer—couched, of course, in dinner or talk of the Arrangement or any other nonsense that might hide why he asked—but Aziraphale was already turning around. That troubled, aching look was gone and replaced with a tight smile.

“Well, Crowley. It’s time.”

One day, Crowley was going to find where that terrible spark of hope in him lived and he was going to suffocate it. That traitorous little spark had caused him more grief in the last five and a half centuries than anything Hell could throw at him. If not for that hope, it wouldn’t hurt every time Aziraphale left him.

“See you tomorrow, angel?” He said. It wasn’t worth it to delay the inevitable.

Aziraphale’s smile softened. “Did you really think I’d let you off that easily? Sober up. I still have to put you through your paces, dear boy.”

Crowley was vaguely aware of the fact that he’d stood up. It was hard to focus on the specific when or how of the action when that spark of hope was trying to burn him alive from the inside out.

He hadn’t drunk all that much, all things considered, not when compared with other of their experiences with alcohol, but Crowley purged the wine from his system all the same. By the look of concentration on Aziraphale’s face and the speed at which the bottles refilled, he gathered that the angel had done the same.

With a nod, Aziraphale retreated to the far corner of the area he’d marked out with the stones and stretched his neck and shoulders, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet and shaking out his hands. Then, somewhat abruptly, he planted his feet and drew his blade. He was looking off in the other direction, so Crowley couldn’t see his face, but he heard the angel exhale. _This is the best possible outcome here_, he yelled at himself as he went to his own position and took his ridiculous snake sword in hand, _get ahold of yourself and for once in your life, do not fuck this up!_

Aziraphale turned to face him, his body angled away in the stance he’d demonstrated before. _Present a smaller target_, he’d said. Crowley turned his feet and shoulders to mirror him. He took a moment to double-check his grip on his own blade, making sure his finger was placed just so. Aziraphale’s sword was held out in front of him like he was divining for water, pointing unerringly towards Crowley. It did not move or sway in his grip at all, like it was an extension of his arm flexed taut like all the rest of him. _Aziraphale_ did not move at all, and for an angel who fidgeted and wiggled and bounced as much as him, that degree of stillness was almost unnerving. It was a relief when Crowley finally saw him swallow and begin to speak.

“Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be, angel.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said, his tone clipped, “You’ve said you have… had practice at evasion. I want to see what you can do.”

“Right.” Crowley nodded and raised his own sword.

All at once, it was like Aziraphale came to life again. Just like the last time they had tried this, they kept their distance as they circled closer to one another, but there was now an intention behind Aziraphale’s movements that made Crowley feel almost… hunted. Like the boys Crowley had observed before, the angel held his free hand out behind him for balance as he moved. Unlike those boys, however, Aziraphale did not seem particularly keen on leaping about. Yes, there was something of the feline in how he moved, light on his feet and as controlled as a dancer, but he was every bit the lion instead of the tomcat.

As they drew closer together, Crowley made the mistake of thinking Aziraphale was once again waiting for him to strike first. As it happened, Aziraphale was waiting for the moment just before that, for the moment when Crowley sized him up and started planning where to aim. With just the slightest twitch of his wrist, Aziraphale jabbed forward and it was only Crowley’s centuries of well-honed paranoia and jumpiness that saved him. His evasion was nothing fancy. He didn’t block it, didn’t even try, just lurched backwards gracelessly and barely dodged being poked directly in the sternum. He tried to recover his balance but only succeeded in landing further off-kilter when he had to pull back his foot to avoid a low swipe to the ground that kicked up a line of dust between them.

“Keep your sword up.” Aziraphale ordered as he advanced again, and Crowley noticed with mild shock that his weapon had become something of an afterthought to him, just dead weight in his hand as he was backed across the clearing by the angel’s ceaseless onslaught.

Crowley grunted in response and obeyed, putting his blade between him and Aziraphale. Dodging and fleeing were trained behaviors in him by now, but he’d had far less opportunity to practice parrying in those occasions Downstairs when he found himself cornered on his way back from a check-in with Beelzebub. He was making the effort to try it out in the moment, though, and the first time he caught Aziraphale’s blade with his own he found himself unable to suppress a grin.

His grin immediately died an undignified death when Aziraphale did that little trick of his again, twisting his arm around and wrenching Crowley’s sword out of his hand. He heard it rattle as it hit the ground somewhere past his vision, but he did not turn his head away from the angel to look after it. In that moment, his thoughts on Hell, he’d been seized with panic for the span of a heartbeat, fully expecting Aziraphale to go in for the kill after disarming him. Of course, that wasn’t what happened. This was Aziraphale. He wasn’t even pointing his sword at him, just... holding it there. Waiting.

“Good first attempt. You’re fast.” Aziraphale said, his voice even. “Keep your sword up, keep moving. Don’t let me get under your guard like that.”

“Right.”

“Again?”

“Sure.” He hesitated for a moment, then glanced around to see where his sword had gotten off to. He’d been holding the thing properly the first time, he’d been sure of it, but he’d still lost hold of it.

_Well_, he thought, taking it in hand again, _at least my wrist isn’t broken. Got that bit right, at least._

They didn’t bother with starting out twenty paces apart the second time. Efficient. A lot of this was efficient, he realized as he dodged another precise thrust. On the angel’s end, at least. Aziraphale didn’t waste even the slightest shift in posture, not the smallest movement. As a being who avoided unnecessary effort whenever he could, Crowley would have admired him for it if that’s what this had been. There was nothing lazy about how Aziraphale was fighting, though. It was calculated. He knew exactly how far to move and didn’t bother with anything more than that. Crowley had no such precision and found himself moving a great deal more than was strategic. More than once, this culminated with him diving for the ground to avoid an attack Aziraphale made at the exact moment when he was the most off-balance.

After several times through of the whole dodge-and-get-disarmed routine, Crowley decided he’d had enough of being the one on the back foot. He feinted, thrusting wide to try to goad Aziraphale into trying to block him, hoping to get him off balance. Aziraphale didn’t even flinch as the tip of the sword slipped past him. It was like he knew it was a trick and refused to waste the effort in countering it—

Come to think of it, he probably did know. He was probably giving away where he was aiming for again. Crowley tensed his shoulders and neck, willing himself to keep looking at Aziraphale’s face instead of his next target.

“Excellent!” Aziraphale cried, blocking his thrust. “I can see you’re starting to get the hang of this.” The angel’s praise made Crowley’s heart do some kind of maneuver that likely would have been fatal to a human. A cocky reply died in his throat immediately thereafter. “I’ll pick up the pace now, if you’re amenable.”

The sword whistled as it cut through the air, the springy blade wavering like a taut string from the force of the motion. Crowley had better visual acuity than the average human, and slightly better reflexes than one when sober, but he still lost sight of that flash of steel in the moments before it collided with him. There was a snap to it, like the crack of a whip, and the tip had already left his shoulder by the time he noticed it had landed. There was a thrum of miracle in the air, and Crowley knew that Aziraphale had performed a blessing to remove the possibility of injury from their practice duel. The sword had not broken his skin and would not even leave a bruise behind… but that didn’t mean it didn’t fucking sting in the moment. The realization that Aziraphale had been going at less than full-fucking-speed this whole time stung worse.

In the future, when swashbuckler cinema was in vogue, Crowley would look back on this afternoon and roll his eyes. There was a certain degree of romance ascribed to a swordfight in the stories, which sometimes bled into the territory of sexual tension. The woodcuts and songs and plays of the day treated the subject of the duel with some intrigue, but the invention of the film camera really made it feel magical and charged, especially once the trope of dramatically slashed clothing became commonplace. Even if he’d been able to land a hit like that, even with Aziraphale dressed down in miracled clothes he clearly intended to dispose of after, Crowley would never have risked doing anything to damage what the angel was wearing… No matter how appealing the thought was of getting past all those _bloody layers_.

There was no denying the sexual tension inherent in this lesson with Aziraphale, at least from Crowley’s perspective—that was there was every time they crossed paths, why should this be any different? But there had been no banter, no romance, none of the things that made those swordfights on the screen seem to sparkle. Crowley called bullshit. There was no time for any of that, barely any time to react, let alone trade wit. Aziraphale was relentless as he kept Crowley on the defensive, never able to attack or press forward, relegated to dodging and watching the angel for a sign of the next thrust. Most of the time, Aziraphale was able to feint and draw Crowley’s attention away. Some of the time, Crowley ended up in the dirt. He barely had time to think. The angel was like a machine, unphased by either the exertion or the heat of the summer day.

Crowley could not say the same for himself. The sun overhead was punishingly hot, and after hours of throwing himself around he felt like he was cooking under his layers of black clothing. There were any number of things he could have done to alleviate the problem. With infernal power at his fingertips, he could have summoned cloud cover, conjured a more temperate microclimate for their hilltop, or even lowered his own body temperature to offset the heat. Crowley did not do any of those things, however, as to perform a demonic miracle—

“Watch me, Crowley, not your feet.”

—he would need the ability—

“Thrust, dear. Don’t hack.”

—to concentrate—

“I said _thrust_, Crowley. What was that supposed to be?”

—on not getting knocked down—

“Right, then. Up you get, dear boy.”

—_for just a bloody second_.

In the absence of any intervention from its owner, Crowley’s vessel went into autopilot and did everything it could to keep him from discorporating from heat stroke. There were times sweating could be fun. In a sauna, for instance. In this instance, though, Crowley found it to be decidedly the opposite of fun. It absorbed into his clothes, and the air was too humid for it to evaporate and cool him. He was reminded unpleasantly of Hastur as he felt the fabric peel away from his skin as he moved. His hair was soaked with it, glued to his forehead and the back of his neck, and beads of sweat kept dripping down his face. The salt stung his eyes, making him squint and miss seeing Aziraphale’s next _bloody attack_, and then he was on the ground again.

He was too frustrated to try to do anything about the heat the supernatural way, but there were human tactics that required a lot less effort. As he got to his feet, his hands found the fastenings of his doublet and wrenched them open. He threw the garment away from him, as far past Aziraphale’s barriers as he could manage. The linen shirt he wore beneath it was dripping, stuck to his torso in unflattering ways, but it was light-colored and open at the chest, and he considered both of those traits to be a massive improvement.

For perhaps the millionth time that day, he missed Ancient Greece. They didn’t fuss with all these layers. There was just draped fabric, open where it counted to let a person feel the breeze, and when it became obvious that some serious physical activity was in order—several hours of punishing combat training, as an example—there were no hang ups about going without clothing altogether.

“What are you doing?”

Crowley looked up. Aziraphale was barely breathing hard, the bastard. How did he make this look so easy?

“It’s summer in Florence, angel.” He groaned, twisting the end of his shirt between his hands to try and wring it out. “I’m baking alive over here.”

Aziraphale rolled his shoulders and flexed the muscles of his hands. Crowley thought he noticed a flush to his cheeks. Probably a hallucination brought on by his heat-addled brain.

“Really, my dear boy. Were you created specifically to vex me?”

Crowley found the piece of cord he kept tied around his wrist and pulled back his dripping hair. “You can’t prove I wasn’t.”

They practiced the rest of the day and into the night. As the heat faded along with the light, Crowley found his enjoyment of the whole scenario beginning to improve. He wasn’t great at this, not by any description, but he was starting to spend more time on his feet and less time on the ground. In a real fight, he would have lost a thousand times over by now, but Aziraphale seemingly had no interest in seeing him beaten. When Crowley left him an obvious opening, he took it, but most of the time he was content to let Crowley writhe out of the way of his strikes. Fifty-five centuries of getting himself out of trouble had really paid off here. Crowley could count on his fingers the number of times the blade actually made contact, and on one occasion that he would commit to memory for the remainder of his immortal life he’d even been able to graze Aziraphale’s thigh.

Aziraphale also seemed to be enjoying himself more as the night wore on, becoming freer with his praise as he called out instructions and corrections. The word “clever” was sprinkled increasingly throughout the angel’s vocabulary, and although he was working quite hard to keep both feet planted on the ground in a solid fighting stance, Crowley felt like he was flying.

Crowley had been in the angel’s company in countless contexts throughout their time together. He was thrilled, however, to discover that there were still many sides he’d yet to see of Aziraphale, even after all these millennia of observation. Watching him do this, the effortless way he moved in the starlight, Crowley questioned the notion that angels could not dance. Maybe _angels_ couldn’t, but he bet Aziraphale could, if he ever decided to put his mind to it. Crowley, for his part, was transfixed.

“It must be close to midnight.” Aziraphale said, reaching down to help Crowley off the ground after one of his tumbles. He did it without hesitation now.

“Probably.” Crowley dusted off his breeches and moved back into position.

“We’re expected at dawn.”

“Still leaves a lot of time to show me a thing or two.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose you’ll suggest we keep at it right down to the minute.”

“Sure,” Crowley said, ducking beneath the angel’s sword, “Our duel could range all over. Start out here. Cut straight through the streets of Florence.”

“I bet you’d like that, you fiend.” Aziraphale said, thrusting again. “Spreading chaos across the whole city.”

“C’mon. It’d be fun.”

He sighed, blocking a jab to his midsection. “I suppose I should ask you the obvious question.”

“What’s that?”

“This duel of ours. How should it end?”

Crowley grinned as he caught Aziraphale’s blade on his, this time pulling back before he could be disarmed. “Doubt, angel? Afraid I might win?”

The angel laughed. “Of course not, dear. Don’t be silly.”

“What, then?”

“Well, the terms Maffeo issued. Originally, at least.” He shook his head. “Fairly grisly.”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley said, his tone mockingly serious, “Are we… to the death, then?”

“Good Lord, Crowley. No. _No_. I’m not going to discorporate you.”

“Kidding.” He backed off, trying to prowl around and attack from behind. Aziraphale pivoted where he stood, keeping Crowley in front of him.

“But yes, my dear. The general idea of it is the same. I’ll win. Good will triumph over evil.” Aziraphale gave a knowing smile, and Crowley felt his enjoyment of the evening pop like a soap bubble. “We just have to make the end look convincing.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

“I suppose I could disarm you, so you could surrender.”

Crowley stopped still. He’d made the mistake of thinking they could go one night without worrying about opposite sides, about wickedness being thwarted by good… without pretending. A pointless hope. For Aziraphale, obviously, that talk was still something he believed in, and always would. “Nah.”

“What?”

“M’not going to surrender.”

“Crowley, don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale sighed, rolling his eyes, “of course you will.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you going to make me?”

Aziraphale lunged forward, but Crowley made no move to dodge or parry. The tip of his rapier pushed against his chest, dulled by magic, the blade bending under the pressure until the angel lowered it. “Don’t be difficult.”

“Look at the context. The human context, I mean.” Crowley said, feeling his words grow sharper the longer he spoke. “We’re bitter rivals, remember? Why would I surrender to you? This could finally be my chance to best you, restore my honor, whatever shite they tell themselves all this fighting’s for, anyway.”

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth.

“No way am I gonna just let you knock my sword away and then show you my belly. Given the context, of course, I think I’d fight until my rival _forced_ me to stop.”

“Crowley, for the last time, I’m not going to discorporate you!” Aziraphale snapped, then stopped, almost as though he was surprised by his own outburst. His sword was held out beside him, tip safely pointed away as he bounced his fist against his hip. “You can just stop that thinking, right now.”

“Can you just shut up for a moment?” Crowley hissed, “Of course I don’t want you to bloody discorporate me, I was trying to explain that, if you’d listen. There’s more than one way to end a duel, if you recall.”

Aziraphale looked at him, frowning. When the realization hit him, he wrinkled his nose. “What, are you suggesting we fight until first blood?”

“It would work.”

“I’m not about to wound you!” He bounced his hand a bit faster now as he raised his voice.

“Why not? S’not like I can’t heal. Bet it won’t even hurt.” Crowley shrugged. “What’s a little blood between friends?”

“… We aren’t friends, Crowley.” There was a pause before Aziraphale said it, like he was grounding himself before trusting himself to speak. Crowley didn’t really believe him. There were things they both understood but couldn’t say out loud, and he knew some of those were things the angel could probably never say… but lying to a stranger about this was different than Aziraphale lying about it when it was just the two of them.

“Oh, yeah. Of course not.” He snapped, taking a sick thrill of satisfaction at seeing the surprise cross Aziraphale’s face. He hated himself for it, but he kept talking. Crowley never did learn how to stop once he got like this. “So, since we’re not friends. It shouldn’t be a problem to just nick me a little, should it?”

Aziraphale stared at him for a moment, the faint line of a frown between his eyebrows. “I think perhaps it’s time we call it a night.”

Tempered as it was by his anger, Crowley felt the familiar pang of loss that always preceded each goodbye. “Fine.”

“I’ll see you at dawn, Crowley.” Aziraphale said, sheathing his sword and turning away. Crowley watched him go as he walked back down the hill towards the road. He never once looked back.

When ten minutes had passed, when the danger of anyone seeing them and assuming they were—Hell forbid it—walking _together_ had lessened, Crowley put away his own sword and walked back towards the city alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Straight-up vanished for a few weeks, whoops. This chapter + grad school teamed up to try to kill me, but I lived, bitch.


	4. Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A duel at dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been approximately 6,000 years, but I'm back to finish this thing. To make it up to y'all, this last chapter's a long boi.

“_Good will triumph over evil, Crowley_.” Crowley mocked, skidding to a stop after a bit of loose gravel and cypress needles under his heel sent his feet sliding out from under him. It wasn’t the dark that was the problem. He could see well enough by starlight, better than a human could, but the hill was steep, and even after a few millennia of practice walking his legs were still uncooperative at times. Perhaps that’s what came of putting all those limbs on a body intended to be operated by the brain of a snake.

_Typical bloody angel_. Crowley should never have said what he said to him up on the wall, back in Eden, all that business about angels not being able to do the wrong thing. It was sarcasm, obviously, but the sweet little idiot had taken him at his word and clearly it had gone straight to his head. It was impossible to reason with Aziraphale when he got like this. An absolute waste of time. Crowley didn’t even know why he kept trying.

Typical Aziraphale, always trying to hold two things in his hands and never let them touch. In his right hand, _dexter_, his angelic certainty in the existence of a black-and-white world. In his left, _sinister_, his—might as well call it what it was, even if the angel wouldn’t—friendship with a demon. Sheep go off to the right, goats to the left, no exceptions… well, besides the one goat with the snake eyes he liked a little better than the rest of the sheep. For now. They both knew Aziraphale would eventually make his choice, send Crowley away, return to his own flock. Crowley just hoped he made that choice before the others decided he fit in better with the goats.

Five and a half thousand years of meeting up, of conversation, of drinks and laughter and meals, and here he was. Perpetually the enemy. With the Arrangement as it stood now, the angel was more than willing to have Crowley stick his neck out for him performing blessings. He was even amenable to performing some of Crowley’s temptations, provided that Crowley was willing to listen to him complain about it first. Yet, despite all of that, Aziraphale was completely unwilling to acknowledge… well, any of it, really.

Crowley wasn’t stupid. He had no interest in finding out what horrors lurked in Hell for a demon caught doing Heaven’s busywork for them. Even still, though, there were things they could say and do without risking the wrath of their supervisors. They’d managed it so far, hadn’t they? What risk was there in saying it aloud, even just one time, after all the risk they’d taken already? Really, when it came down to it, if they got caught doing one another’s work, it wouldn’t matter if Aziraphale called him a “wicked serpent of the pit” or a “foul fiend” or his friend. If it came to that, they were both thoroughly screwed. They’d clip Aziraphale’s wings and toss him off the top of the tallest cumulonimbus in Heaven. As for Crowley, he’d either be dead or wish he was.

The bleak reality of their situation settled in again, though it was never very far out of Crowley’s mind, clinging around him like a wet cloak as he passed through the gates and back into the city.

And that was it, really, when it came down to it, why Crowley kept doing this. Somewhere along the line, they’d both decided that wine and laughter and conversation were worth all of that risk. Typical for Crowley, he’d gotten to that realization first, and he’d been willing to wait for Aziraphale to catch up. Logically, he knew Aziraphale would catch up to him in this, too. He always did, even if it took a thousand years, but it was alright. They had that kind of time, provided they didn’t slip up. That’s why it had to be alright.

He just wished that in the meantime, Aziraphale would stop reminding him once every damned hour they were together that he was, well. Damned. Between the two of them, which one of them had gotten to experience skinny dipping in boiling sulfur? Thing like that wasn’t easily forgotten. It wasn’t like Crowley needed the reminder of how badly he’d fucked up.

Then again, perhaps it wasn’t Crowley that Aziraphale was trying to remind. Crowley knew the angel very well after all this time, but even a casual observer could tell how scared Aziraphale was of failing, and for an angel, failing meant Falling. And was it any wonder, with how those other angels talked to him, like he was always one mistake away from them shutting the pearly gates and locking him out?

And yet, Aziraphale was willing to keep making those mistakes… willing to keep making them with Crowley. His hereditary enemy. So that’s why this had to be enough. Crowley didn’t have to hear him say it, not if lying to himself about their friendship made Aziraphale feel safer. Besides, he’d be a hypocrite if he held that against him for too long. After all, there were things Crowley kept under lock and key, too, things he couldn’t say even to himself yet. They both did what they had to. Crowley would wait. It’s all he could do.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t completely, _blessedly_ annoying, and it didn’t mean Crowley would roll over for him on cue like his own personal lap-demon. Crowley may have set the duel up, but it was Aziraphale who took it upon himself to teach Crowley how to fight back. What would be the point of that if he gave up now? No. That wouldn’t do at all. If Aziraphale thought Crowley was going to make it easy for him, he had another thing coming.

It wasn’t losing to Aziraphale that bothered him. It was never that. Crowley knew from the beginning how this would end. He had no illusions about that. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate and his blessed pride would never let him win. He never let Crowley win at chess, or senet, or go, or mancala, and this was so much more personal than any of that. After all, it hadn’t been a flaming _board game_ the Almighty had given Aziraphale, for Satan’s sake. And it wasn’t like Crowley’s own pride could stand for that kind of treatment, either.

No. It would be a straightforward contest, or at least as straightforward as a contest between two ancient beings with a loose grasp on physics and reality could be. And Crowley was going to lose it. No matter how good of a fencing instructor Aziraphale was (and, as far as Crowley was concerned, he was too much of a distraction to teach much of anything), they had only had a handful of hours on that hilltop. A handful of hours against celestial training and divine purpose from before time knew the measure of an hour? There was no question.

Crowley made his way up the narrow flight of stairs to his rented room above the tavern where this whole mess began. _Where_ you _made this whole mess_, he thought. The voice in his head sounded more than a little like the angel’s.

He shut the door behind himself and scrubbed a hand across his face. Yes, Crowley knew he was going to lose this fight. What mattered was how. What mattered was what happened in the interim, between the first flash of steel and him landing flat on his back. What Crowley needed now was a plan. He did his best thinking while moving, and so set to pacing around the cramped room. Well, more like prowling than pacing, if he was being accurate. The two activities were very different. Prowling was menacing, brooding, and done by people who were dangerous… or who could be. Pacing was something anxious people did, people who were uncertain. Crowley was certain he knew how tomorrow would go. He was going to duel his hereditary _bloody_ enemy and get his ass knocked in the dirt for his trouble. It was simple. He just had to lose in a way that left him a smidge of dignity and didn't make the angel decide to stop talking to him. Well, perhaps it was less simple than it looked. He prowled the night away trying to get the details sorted.

Somewhere in his prowling, his sword found his way into his hand. At first, his flourishes were languid and directionless, serving no purpose beyond punctuating particularly notable points in the argument he was having with himself. Gradually, though, his posture shifted into that angled stance and his feet began to seek out a familiar pattern on those creaking floorboards—_thrust, retreat, thrust_.

“You know me, Dagon,” he said after landing hard on a loose plank that squealed like the souls in the sixth circle, “Up to wickedness as always. Disrupting human circadian rhythms. Gonna cause a lot of wrath in the coming days.”

There had been a maneuver that Aziraphale had done, back on the hilltop. It had been the first time he’d struck Crowley, and he had moved such that the blade of his sword had rippled in the air like a willow switch instead of steel. He tried to copy the movement here in his room, cursing himself for watching for the tip of the blade—moving too fast for the eye to follow—instead of what Aziraphale’s arm had been doing. He was a demon of Hell. He’d seen a whip used before. Everyone had, it was hard to miss. The technique couldn’t be that different, could it? Of course, he’d always found ways to avoid getting hands-on practice in Torments, so he couldn’t say that with certainty, but Crowley was a demon with an imagination, and he figured he could find a way to make this work.

There was an awful lot of wiggling of the blade, but very little whipping. It seemed like everything he did made the thin little sword quaver, which didn’t do much besides make it harder to aim. Whose idea was it to make the blasted things so bendy, anyway? To Crowley’s credit, he only dropped his sword once. Directly onto his foot. The thunk and subsequent swearing were enough to awaken one of his neighbors. Someone tried to shout a hoarse protest from the room next door, but the words dissolved into a wet coughing fit.

_That’ll be Cambio, then_, he thought, retrieving his sword to try again.

He wasn’t sure exactly how he did it, and he knew he couldn’t replicate it if he tried, but his face broke into a grin when he lunged forward, brought the sword down upon the bed, and felt the ripple of steel like a wave. Not like a whip, then, at all. No. He’d felt that sting and gotten it wrong. It had been a _flick_, such a delicate movement, and he’d managed to get it at last. He crowed in victory when he heard the snap of the tip against the bedding. He even remembered to follow up the strike with a leap backwards and out of range.

As he retreated, the sword ripped free where it had gotten snagged in his pillow. The steel sliced open the fabric, downy white feathers bleeding out from the wound across the threadbare gray blankets and onto the floor.

Crowley blinked. After the last feather floated down, resting on the toe of his boot, the room was completely still. It felt as though time itself had frozen.

_How could I hold it against him_, he thought, squeezing the grip of his sword like that alone would hold him together, _when I know how right he is to be afraid_?

A long, guttural moan broke the silence. The last cries of a dying man… or, at least, of a man who thought he was dying. Cambio would suffer no ill effect from the curse, but tonight he was wrapped in the delirium of an illusory fever that probably burned like Hellfire. Crowley had little time or patience for that now. He snapped his fingers and heard the heard the noise cut off with a dry gasp as the young officer came down with rapid-onset illusory laryngitis.

Outside his window, the sky was turning a paler shade of dark, like water dripped into ink. It wasn’t dawn yet, but would be soon, and the sun waited for Crowley no more than it did for any mortal. Sheathing his sword, he turned to go, ready to abandon his room in its chaos. The feathers he could deal with later, might even be good to deal with later, might help him remember what was at stake. He hesitated by the door, taking a deep breath in a futile effort to settle himself down, and waved a hand in front of himself. He felt the dirt and sweat evaporate from his clothing and hair, then forced a bit more swagger in his step as he opened the door and walked out onto the landing.

He found that group of young soldiers waiting for him downstairs in the tavern. They swarmed him as he headed for the bar to take his breakfast—two shots of something cheap and harsh that he hoped would make him feel less like he was about to vibrate out of his own skin—pestering him with questions about the duel. Satan below, they were planning on following him all the way there.

There was a moment on the street just outside the tavern when he raised a hand to banish them all to somewhere else, if for no other reason than to get a reduction in the noise level, but he held back. These three didn’t know it yet, but they were dying. It was clear from the way they talked and walked and fought that they thought themselves invincible, but Crowley had been around long enough to know better. They would all probably die young, either in a battle or from some plague or from their own stupidity in a duel like the one they were clamoring to watch. As soon as that happened, Hell would take their souls. There wasn’t a sin out of the seven this lot hadn’t at least flirted with. As usual, Crowley hadn’t had much to do with setting that up. His work, such that it was, was done before he’d ever met them. Why meddle now?

If Aziraphale had been here, he would have sent them away with some words of inspiration, hoping they would turn their lives around. Aziraphale wasn’t here, though, and Crowley was a demon. He let them lead the way, far enough ahead of him that he could tune out their chatter. It was their choice to immerse themselves in this hot-tempered world of honor and duels and death, and it would probably eat all three of them before they could grow old. The least Crowley could do was give them something interesting to talk about before they died.

As he walked through the empty streets, Crowley cast his eyes upwards to the stars still bright in the inky sky. He couldn’t say why he did it, exactly, why he did this every blessed time like he was expecting to see something different up there. The stars were the same whenever he looked at them, as unchanged by time as the one who hung them. They wouldn’t be visible for much longer, even with Crowley’s vision. It was early yet, but already the faintest trace of light was rising above the horizon, the color of a cut peach.

The letter from Aziraphale had described the dueling ground as a home overlooking the city, and Crowley supposed that was accurate enough, if a bit of an understatement. It was a sprawling villa surrounded by lush vineyards and orchards, the kind of place that made him laugh quietly to himself about the hardships Aziraphale must be enduring with this job. He could picture the angel now, lounging about enjoying the breeze and the local wines. If this family owned a library, Crowley would count himself lucky that Aziraphale had left the place long enough for him to bump into him. Then again, his job here was putting some spoiled, bratty teenager on the path to Papacy. His charge was clearly a rich little monster who had to be stopped from playing some very lethal games, so perhaps the angel’s assignment was less relaxing than he’d first suspected.

The four of them were met at the gate of the villa by a servant carrying a lamp. He led them around the side of the building to a back entrance and through empty, silent halls. If Crowley were to guess, he’d say this place must be some kind of seasonal home, a spare residence for rich parents to lose track of their children in when they decided to try their hand at a little casual murder. It was kind of funny, Crowley supposed, how the challenge to this duel had been issued so publicly, and yet, when it was time to get on with it, here they all were creeping around in the dark.

The lamplight pushed back a heavy curtain of shadow to reveal corridors littered with art and gilt, all the gaudy trappings of wealth and power that put the three human soldiers on edge. They walked with their arms pressed tight against their sides for fear of tipping over some fragile bauble worth more than they would make in their lives. Crowley tucked his thumbs into his belt. There was a lot here he could work with, under normal circumstances, but he considered this whole situation to be time spent off the clock. Not the time to be making that kind of mischief, even though the wankers who lived here could clearly do with a bit of trouble.

They reached an archway and the servant led them back out into the pre-dawn stillness of a courtyard. Crowley took a deep breath in through his nose. The air was suffused with the scent of lemon blossoms, the potted trees themselves standing sentinel in every corner, boughs sagging under the weight of their fruit. A bit more pink was in the sky now, reflected back in the soft glitter of the smooth mosaic tiles set into the floor.

The remainder of the people involved in this affair were already outside, plus a few hangers-on: a pair of guards, a servant hovering with a pitcher of wine, a surly looking teenager, a completely unnecessary surgeon, and, of course, an angel. When Crowley entered, they were standing around a small table, for just as that immaculate, copperplate handwriting had promised, refreshments were indeed being served.

Aziraphale was dressed once again in all his lacy finery from the day before. As usual, he was a bright spot in the crowd, all satin and gold buttons in the lamplight. Soft white curls the color of his wings practically shone against the deep gray of the pre-dawn sky, drawing to mind the sight of feathers flowing like blood on Crowley’s bed.

Crowley swallowed. He’d expected a lot of things in the lead up to this morning. He hadn’t expected the nerves. Useless, those were. They were still in danger, of course. They lived like that. They always would. This was no different. Aziraphale was in no more danger today than any other day, from Crowley or anyone else. No point in dwelling on it.

There was a difference, he thought, between looking at the angel and gazing at him. For a start, one was a lot more productive. You miss a lot when you waste your time gazing. The hair’s not doing anything different, it never does. You won’t learn anything new that way. Aziraphale’s lips, though, were always something worth looking at. Right now, they were pursed like they tended to be when he was in a snit. His jaw was informative, too, the way it clenched, biting back some comment. There was also something in the way his posture shifted when he noticed Crowley had arrived, standing a bit straighter. All those things told a story. So did his hands, and those were the biggest clue of all. They were empty. Not just a snit, then. Aziraphale was a master of the art of the sideways glance over a tilted glass, of the science of a disdainfully eaten biscuit. This morning, though, he seemed to have declined both food and wine, and that was a problem. He was afraid again, and that made Crowley set aside his own fears.

There was probably some kind of etiquette to the way these things started, some social niceties that got ignored when the parties involved were dueling drunkenly in the alley right outside the brothel where the insult first happened—much more common in Crowley’s experience than handwritten invitations and snack platters, but the rich always knew how to complicate matters, didn’t they? Aziraphale probably knew the rules. Crowley didn’t, and he didn’t care. He sauntered across the courtyard, right up to the angel, and held out a hand.

“Signore Fell.” He said, nodding. Cool, aloof. _Keep up the charade, don’t make him worry about what the humans are thinking._

“Signore.” Aziraphale murmured back. He looked down at the offered hand for a moment, hesitating, but then took it.

Crowley leaned in closer under the pretext of clapping him on the shoulder, though he made no further contact, his left hand hovering just above layers of satin and brocade. No need to startle him.

“Has something happened?” He asked, voice too quiet for the humans to overhear. His head was tilted so Aziraphale could see his eyes over his glasses, and he glanced upwards to Heaven.

Aziraphale shook his head, stiff. “Nothing like that.” They broke apart, widening the distance between them to something more becoming of two human men preparing to cut each other up with very sharp swords.

The last time they’d spent much time on the Italian peninsula together, just before the turn of the new millennium, kissing had been the norm for a greeting between friends. Even though the word “friend” had only just recently entered their lexicon, even as a thing to be danced around and ignored—after all, something had to be acknowledged as a possibility for it to be denied—they’d once greeted each other that way most times when they met. They were back here again now, together. Crowley knew that a kiss was still a customary way to greet a friend in this time and place, but he also knew he would never be able to try that again. All those years ago, he hadn’t even known yet how much he’d miss those chaste, fraternal touches until after they were gone, as they were both called away to regions with less intimate customs and as they both came to terms with the risk that came with their lingering together. Casual touches had been just one more casualty of that fear, and now he counted up each one he did get like treasures he stole. And for Hell’s sake, he apparently wasn’t capable of standing this close to the angel without thinking of kissing him. Forget it. The handshake was more than enough.

Right. No contact from Heaven, then. Aziraphale still came to meet the challenge this morning, so their argument last night hadn’t been enough to chase him off. His sword was on his hip, so Crowley had to assume he was planning on following through with the duel. He was still here, and if it wasn’t Heaven that had him so scared, Crowley could do something about it.

Right, then. Busy morning ahead of him, lots to do. He had to lose a duel—lose it properly, not beg for his life at the end of an angel’s sword, not even this one, not even when it was all pretend. He also had to find a way to make his hereditary enemy, his best friend, smile again. Laugh, too, if he could swing it. A neat bit of work if he could figure out how to do all of it.

“You there. Second.” The teenaged boy called, his reedy little voice ringing in the courtyard. Crowley raised an eyebrow as he realized he was the one being addressed. If this was the child who Aziraphale said was to be Pope someday, Crowley figured he was off to a fine start. He’d already developed a taste for telling others what to do, and clearly had an inflated sense of his own importance.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Pardon me, Signorino. His—the second’s name is Crowley.”

“Whoever you are. Is it true? Is this…” He trailed off, watching Aziraphale mouth a name at him. “This Capitano Buoncambio. Is it true what you told Signore Fell about him?”

After Crowley only reacted to the name with a confused look, Aziraphale sighed and said in a clipped tone, “The person for whom you are acting as second.”

“Oh, right. Him. ‘Course. Cambio. Didn’t know he had the full—What about him?”

There was a crunching sound as the teenager polished off a slice of apple. He stepped forward out of the shadow of his guards and Crowley could see him clearly. Dark hair, dark eyes, dressed to match the house behind him both in coloration and commitment to ornamentation. He looked like a real git.

“Is it true he’s really sick? Or is he just a coward?”

The group of soldiers erupted in a chorus of protest, and Crowley couldn’t be bothered to silence them.

“Extremely.” His voice was slick and carried the suggestion he was revealing the most delectable of gossip, even though what he was saying was meaningless. He got a lot of practice with that tone giving presentations in Hell. “Never seen someone so sick.”

“So, will he die then?” The boy asked, a stage whisper.

“Nah,” Crowley said, flicking his eyes towards Aziraphale, “Figure he’ll live.”

“Shame. He’d have it coming for what he said about my sister.”

Crowley glanced around. As he’d originally thought, only men (and men-shaped beings) were present. The sister wasn’t here to watch these strangers fight over her honor. He wondered if she even knew this was happening in her name, or at all. Crowley doubted it. After all, none of this was really about her. It was about two quick-tempered humans looking for an excuse to heap back some of the everyday miseries of living on their fellow man. Just another pissing contest.

“I suppose that brings us to negotiations, then.” Aziraphale said, smiling pleasantly. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“I suppose so.”

“Right, then,” He said, looking Crowley full in the face for the first time since they’d come here, “Will you apologize?”

“Me?” Crowley was taken aback. First, he didn’t acknowledge it at all, now he was doing this here? In front of the humans? “For what?”

“For the slight made by Capitano Buoncambio against Tullia Barberini.”

Right. The thing. The pretext. That was a lot of names, none of which Crowley particularly cared about. The fact that Aziraphale was keeping all of these humans straight was a miracle.

“Refresh my memory, Signore Fell.” He pinched the bridge of his nose under where his glasses sat. “What was it Cambio said, again?”

Aziraphale’s mouth pursed as he glanced towards Pope Kid. “The young captain insulted her dignity and virtue, and—”

“He said,” called one of the soldier boys from the other side of the courtyard, “She’s got a face like an ass and an ass like—”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, cutting him off with a sideways glance and a wave of his hand, “There’s no need for any of that. Signore Crowley, will you apologize for his behavior?”

“Why would I do that?” Crowley asked, his smile all teeth. “He said it, not me.”

“As his second, you can negotiate an end to this duel. There is no need for there to be any violence today if you and I can come to an agreement.” His voice was level, but his arms were held tightly behind his back and the corners of his mouth kept working whenever he paused, as if he were feeling out his words before he said them. “All you need do is apologize on his behalf, and then we can move on from this whole ridiculous business.”

Well, the angel had that part right at least. Two humans, willing to kill each other over such a juvenile taunt? Ridiculous. He would say he was disappointed, but he’d been on Earth for a very long time and it was far from the least stupid reason humans had given for a murder.

Crowley flashed him a grin. “Nah. Don’t think I will.”

“Naturally. Contrition was never your strong suit, Crowley.” He sounded annoyed but unsurprised. No fresh spike of panic, at least.

“What about you, then, an—Fell?” Crowley said, brushing past his slip-up. “Would you apologize?”

Aziraphale looked genuinely confused. “Me? I have nothing to apologize for. My side is not the one in the wrong here.”

“‘Course not.” He said, clicking his tongue. “Never is, is it? Can’t be wrong, that’s my side’s job.”

“Now listen here, Crowley, this isn’t about the—if you’re talking about that, of all things, you might as well offer to apologize for being so infernally stubborn!”

“You’re right, I am, so I won’t. And it looks like you and I are at an impasse, Fell.”

“…Quite.”

“Let’s get on with it, then.”

An exasperated sigh drew their attention away. “He should have fought me!” The Popeling groaned, “I don’t care about you and Signore Fell. He deserves to die by my hand.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. With his luck, he expected he’d be sent right back here in a few years to corrupt this kid. Hell always sent him to tempt the ones who didn’t need the help. He hoped that some of that bloodlust would die off before adulthood, or at the very least, before he got any actual power.

Aziraphale hovered between them, looking for all the world like an agitated hen. “Well, now, young man. There’s no reason for that. The seconds are handling it, and Signore Crowley here has agreed to the updated terms. No one is going to die today.”

“‘Course not.” Crowley said, fingers tracing the serpent guard of his sword. He saw the boy’s eyes follow the motion and then widen. At least someone was impressed with it, even if it was a weaselly little pre-Pope. “Remind me again, Signore Fell. What were those new terms?”

The angel’s hands smoothed out the front of his doublet. His eyes were fixed somewhere just above Crowley’s shoulder. “We fight until surrender.”

“May I propose an alternative?” Crowley asked, his voice all honey. Aziraphale’s mouth tightened into a thin, flat line. “First blood.”

“I like the sound of that.” Said the kid. Crowley looked between him and Aziraphale, holding his hand up as if to say, _See_? Aziraphale, for his part, shot him a look in return that seemed to say, _Him agreeing with you is not the compelling argument you seem to think it is_.

“Think it over, Fell. What’s the harm? No one will die, it’s not like—” He paused, then pointed in the direction of the table of snacks. “I mean, your lad here has hired a surgeon to patch us up after.” The surgeon in question turned to look at them, hastily swallowing a mouthful of wine before raising a hand in greeting.

“You know,” Called one of the young soldiers, the one who was to be Cambio’s original second, if Crowley’s vague recollections were anything to go by. He looked up at them over the top of a carefully balanced plate he was in the process of loading down with orange slices, cheeses, and finger-length sausages. “First blood is a lot less dangerous than fighting until surrender, ‘specially if you’re fighting someone stubborn.”

“Marsilio’s right... _No, no, to the top_,” Another of them added, pausing to urge the servant to fill his wine glass all the way up to the rim, “You can hurt someone real bad before they give up.”

“How about this, Fell. Let’s cut a deal—wait, no. Poor choice of words.” Crowley quirked an eyebrow at the angel. “A compromise. I know you want an honest fight—”

“Does this mean you’re promising not to cheat, Crowley?”

“I promise to fight like an angel,” He said, bowing, “Nothing Heaven wouldn’t approve of.”

Aziraphale’s mouth parted in surprise, but he quickly shut it again once he noticed the smirk on Crowley’s face. “Oh. Of course not,” he snipped, “I should expect nothing else. Though I daresay Heaven wouldn’t approve of anything you did, you fiend.”

Crowley softened his smirk into something more deliberately charming. “What they don’t know won’t hurt, then.”

The angel cleared his throat. “What was your offer?”

“A tweak to the terms. Conditions for the end of the duel.” His voice was even, almost gentle. “If you manage to draw blood, I’ll surrender. Compromise.”

“I don’t see—Crowley, ah... Signore.” _Fuck, there it was again, that agitation_. “That—You are being absolutely impossible.”

Aziraphale busied his hands straightening his doublet and the multitude of ruffles spilling from his collar and sleeves. Crowley’s eyes caught movement from the humans and saw one of the soldiers mimic the motion. He felt a sharp flare of irritation and hostility at the sight, but it was quickly extinguished as an idea occurred to him.

“What are you waiting for, you English bastard!” He shouted at Aziraphale in English, glancing around for a reaction. As he’d hoped, all of the humans were looking at him in confusion.

“I beg your pardon!” Aziraphale said, clearly affronted, though he did respond in English.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Fell. Your little charge is already well on his way,” He snapped, glaring at the Popeling until he took a step backwards, “He’s learned to get other people to fight his battles for him.”

“Did he—what did he say about me, Signore Fell?” The boy squeaked, glancing between Crowley and Aziraphale in alarm.

“N-nothing worth repeating. Don’t worry about it, Maffeo.” Aziraphale said in Italian, flustered, then turned back to Crowley and addressed him again in English. “Do you care to explain what, exactly, you’re doing?”

“They already think you’re some fussy foreigner, angel,” He continued, lowering the volume of his words to a hiss, keeping his expression as menacing as he could, “I hoped they wouldn’t understand me if I switched from Italian to yell at you in your _mother tongue_, and I was right.”

“Why?”

“So we can talk freely.”

Understanding dawned on his face and Aziraphale very deliberately scrunched his expression up into a frown. Crowley was doomed. The angel was already fighting dirty. He was too bloody adorable to be looked at.

“You clever serpent.” He said, clearly attempting to make his voice sound fierce instead of fond. It sounded more like scolding than anything else.

“Let me show you what I learned.” Crowley snarled, trying not to smile. He wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword and took a step towards him. He heard whispers of excitement from the watching crowd. “Relax, angel. This will be okay. It’ll be fun.”

Aziraphale stared at him for a moment, his lip between his teeth. He was still tense, that much was clear, but he seemed like he was on the brink of making a decision. One sharp nod, his eyes shut tight, and then he squared his shoulders and marched away towards the center of the courtyard where the dueling space had been marked out with chalk crosses on the mosaic floor.

“What did you say to him, Antonio?” One of the soldiers whispered, stepping in close beside Crowley.

“Nothing. Usual stuff,” he replied, switching back to Italian again, “Been having the same argument longer than any of you have been alive.”

Crowley drew his sword and his fingers found their proper places around the grip, familiar now after holding it so many hours. If during the night the steel had molded itself to the curve of his hand, that was between him and the sword. As he sauntered over to the far end of the courtyard, he chanced a look over his shoulder. Aziraphale was already in place, turned away listening to the Popeling’s inane chatter, hand hovering near the hilt of his own sword where it hung at his waist, still in its sheath. With the angel’s attention drawn elsewhere, Crowley snapped his fingers and felt the tingle of infernal power warm his palm. Aziraphale could use whatever maneuvers he liked, twist up their blades like he did whenever he tried that trick of his, but it wouldn’t matter. Crowley’s sword wouldn’t leave his hand until he wanted it to.

He paused for a moment, remembering the way Aziraphale had lifted him from the ground and moved him as though Crowley had been no heavier than one of his books, and snapped his fingers a second time. As the demonic miracle took effect, he tried a few experimental movements—rolling his wrist, bending his elbow, shrugging his shoulder—and found it felt about the same, really. He trusted that the angel wouldn’t intentionally brutalize him, but he also knew the kind of power Aziraphale could put behind a blow. An arm full of broken bones would be an inconvenience, and even though he could heal them, it was a distraction he didn’t want to risk.

“I see you’re eager to get started, then.” Aziraphale’s voice called out, reverberating a little against the villa’s walls. Crowley looked up to see that he was being watched—no, _examined_. In the wash of the dawn, truly breaking at last now, he could see a frown on the angel’s face as he looked him over from across the dueling space and tried to figure out the why he detected Hellish power. The few clouds in the sky above his head were streaked with scarlet.

“Are you ready, Fell?” He spoke the words for the benefit of anyone watching. For the humans, for Heaven and Hell if they picked this out of all moments to care, he spoke it with an air of casual disdain. Sarcastic, cutting, bored. He hoped, though, that Aziraphale would hear it for what it truly was: an offer of an out, if he wanted to take it.

Aziraphale nodded, so slow it might have been mistaken for him swaying where he stood, and took a deep breath. As he drew his sword, the anxiety disappeared from his face and posture. Not gone, no. Hidden. He’d put up a wall.

The angel shifted his feet into the proper stance and bowed at the waist, his movements clean and precise. He paused before straightening all the way upright, hesitating awkwardly as he looked across the courtyard to Crowley. It took him a moment to realize Aziraphale was waiting on him. Crowley dipped his head in response.

That quick little formality was apparently all that had been holding Aziraphale back from crossing the divide between them in a series of long, purposeful strides. Crowley’s reaction came at a delay—when they’d done this the night before, there had been a sort of a dance in the way they had first come together. They had circled one another, gradually getting closer, settling into the rhythm of it all. Not this time. No dancing, no rhythm, just Aziraphale marching straight for him with the air of someone who knew no force on Earth could stop him. He was more than halfway across the courtyard before Crowley’s brain kicked into gear, yelling at him to _move sometime this century, maybe_.

Casting a glance back at the chalk cross sketched behind his heels, Crowley sidestepped out of the path of Aziraphale’s trajectory, skirting the boundary of the dueling space. Underneath all the angel’s posturing about virtue and humility and all that faff, Crowley knew how petty Aziraphale could be. Even though it would make for a hollow victory in any other duel, he also recognized that Aziraphale would never let him live it down if he managed to back Crowley over the line and into forfeiture.

Aziraphale met him in the middle of the space as he circled back behind him. His first lunge was directed at Crowley’s midsection, which he dodged with a hasty step backwards that nearly saw him toppling over his own feet. _Snake brain, human legs. Terrible design flaw, that_. His second was aimed low, taking advantage of Crowley’s lapse in balance. He batted the blade away before it could touch him, buying him a moment to find his footing again.

Back on the hilltop, his focus had been split in two directions: keeping up with Aziraphale’s deranged pacing, and trying not to discorporate from being picked up, pinned to the ground, and generally handled in ways that would linger in his memories for decades to come. As a result, Crowley hadn’t been left with much brain left over to think about technique. He’d had a lot of time to think on it after Aziraphale left, though. Especially now, like he was in this moment, the angel was a force of nature when he put his mind to it. He was relentless, never stopping, moving through his enemies whether they liked it or not… and perhaps, that could be Crowley’s in. Aziraphale could move much faster than he looked, but so could Crowley. If he could get the angel to give chase, stay out of reach of that sword, maybe he could buy himself time.

Keeping his eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s, Crowley stayed light on his feet, meeting the angel’s blade whenever he could and dodging out of the way when he couldn’t. He was back on the defensive again, rarely taking the risk of trying to strike at Aziraphale first. Aziraphale, for his part, had unshakable focus. Nothing pulled his interest, nothing distracted him. He looked and moved as if nothing in the world existed outside Crowley—a thought that was almost too much for the demon to handle in the moment.

One of the things he had learned from watching the locals duel is that the fights were quick. Days, sometimes weeks of negotiation between challenge and satisfaction built up the significance of a fight and inflamed the imaginations of participants and spectators alike—it’s why it made for such a good source of temptation—but it all ended in minutes, sometimes seconds.

One mistake in a handful of seconds. That was all it would take, and this would be over. Crowley was determined to make this last as long as he could.

The first near miss came when Aziraphale lunged closer than Crowley had expected, his foot stepping right up alongside Crowley’s, so close he could see the faint shimmer of perspiration on the angel’s forehead. He’d fought all afternoon the day before in the punishing sun and came away unaffected, even as Crowley had been drenched in sweat through his hose—here in the last lingering coolness of morning, so soon after they began? It could only be nerves.

In that moment of distraction, Crowley forgot to step backwards again, to dodge out of the way. His blade had caught Aziraphale’s but they were still close, too close—_not close enough_—and the angel took his opportunity. There was a rasp of steel on steel as Aziraphale took another step forward, under his guard. He was doing that _bloody_ thing again. Crowley felt his wrist twist, his fingers part, felt his whole arm being pushed back and away, felt his sword… stay attached to his open palm as if it had been glued there.

Crowley followed the momentum of Aziraphale’s attempted disarmament, letting the rest of his body twist down and back and out of the way. Now he was ducking under _Aziraphale’s guard_, thrusting up, making _Aziraphale_ take a step backwards to block. This time, Crowley remembered to retreat.

“Was that…” Aziraphale began, the first sound he’d made since passing through the chalk borders. He dropped his voice low, switched to English, and went in for another thrust. “Did you seriously miracle your sword, Crowley?”

Crowley grinned at him as he parried the jab.

For just a moment, the wall Aziraphale had built up between them cracked. Not fear behind it this time, not panic. No. For the span of a heartbeat—such an irrelevant measure of time for creatures like them, when physiology was their plaything and even time itself would halt given enough power and effort—the corners of the angel’s mouth twitched up into a smile.

This was the point! The world, the people, the tempting and the blessing, all of it. These moments, when it was just the two of them, that was the point of it all, why it all mattered. These moments, just the span of a heartbeat, when Aziraphale saw what mischief Crowley’d done and the words of the Archangels that filled his mind were too slow to keep him from smiling about it. That was why this all mattered, why Crowley took these risks, why he was willing to keep taking them until the sun burned out. He would couldn’t say the words yet, not even in his head, but he knew there was no limit to what he would do for even one more of these heartbeats. If he could, he’d crawl inside of one and live there.

The trouble with time, though, even to creatures like them, was that it never stopped for long. The moment passed, the corners of Aziraphale’s smile flattened, the wall rose again, and Crowley wasn’t fast enough to dodge the angel’s next attack.

Aziraphale’s blade raked up Crowley’s left side, across his ribs and under his arm. He was immediately put to mind of swordfights on the stage, of the overwrought death screams of actors pretending to have been run through. Clearly a similar thought was occurring to the spectators, because groans and shouts rang out in the courtyard. Crowley retreated again, back out of range, running a hand along where Aziraphale’s blade touched him. In a duel between two humans, a blow like that would have sliced through his doublet and the flesh below it, but there was no damage done, of course. Aziraphale’s blade didn’t, wouldn’t cut him.

“Not a scratch!” He said, pressing his hand down against the dark fabric and raising it up to show Aziraphale and the humans, his clean palm proof he was yet unhurt. He heard the soldiers gasp and cheer.

“Is your blade dull or something, Fell?” The Popeling yelled.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale babbled, circling closer, “Sharpened it just—just this morning!”

“Must be a miracle, then,” Crowley quipped, then as Aziraphale lunged towards him, he hissed in his ear, “Too bad, angel. You almost had me.”

Aziraphale frowned and tried to resume that stoic, distant attitude from before, but Crowley was determined to at least get a chuckle out of him before all this was over. Every time the angel pressed forward into Crowley’s space, each time he cut off one of his attempts at sneaking around to get at him from the other side, Crowley was there to tease him—sometimes in English, sometimes in Hebrew, sometimes in Sumerian, dancing between languages as he dodged the angel’s blade.

“How’s it feel—”

_Retreat._

“—tripping yourself up—”

_Parry._

“—with one of your—”

_Dodge._

“—own miracles?”

_Block, feint left, thrust._

“Normally that’s my bit.” He purred, stepping into the angel’s space as Aziraphale caught his blade.

“Enough of that, you cheat,” Aziraphale whispered back, “Let’s see _your_ demonic miracle help you when I knock you on your rear, dear boy, sword or not!” If it took him longer than usual to force Crowley’s sword back, Crowley wasn’t about to point that out.

“And then what?”

_Dodge._

“Would you just—”

_Parry._

“—sit on me ‘til I gave up?” He leaned in close as they struggled together, saw his breath ruffle the downy curls behind the angel’s ear as he laughed.

Aziraphale stepped back, eyes wide. He blinked, and lunged forward again, the start of a smirk growing on his face. “Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley, I wouldn’t sit on you. It’s called pinning.”

Crowley was well aware of what pinning was, thank you very much, no need for the circulatory system to get overly involved.

“Miss Greece, do you?” He hissed, feeling the infernal equivalent of adrenaline coursing through his veins and daring him to say the kind of stupid, dangerous things that always sprang to mind when the angel said things like that.

“Greece?” Aziraphale dodged a jab aimed at his chest. “Oh! The wrestling, of course…”

“Bet if you asked—” Crowley blocked the angel’s answering thrust. “—they’d let you borrow some olive oil.”

“Olive—?” The angel came in closer now, close enough that Crowley could see his expression shift from confusion to understanding to shock. A blush painted the apples of his cheeks, clear as anything, right there out in the open in the daylight. Well. It was good to know Crowley wasn’t the only one whose memories of the Olympics had been fond.

Still, there was such a thing as pushing the angel too far, and Crowley was beginning to see his window for a graceful exit to this duel closing ahead of him.

“Ready, Aziraphale?”

_Parry._

“Ready—whatever would…" the angel sputtered, "for what?”

_Retreat._

“To win.”

Aziraphale hesitated, watching Crowley, his lips parted. To the humans he probably looked like he was catching his breath. “How?” He asked as they collided once more.

“Got an idea.” Crowley said, retreating, tilting back his head to show the angel his neck and the side of his face. “Aim here.”

“I can’t—Crowley, I—”

_Block._

“Yeah, yeah, your sword.”

_Dodge._

“Yes, but Crowley—”

_Parry._

“Trust me, angel.”

As they broke apart again, he saw Aziraphale’s throat bob as he swallowed. Did he trust him? Would he, when it counted?

Crowley planted his feet on the ground, turned just as Aziraphale had shown him for stability, free hand out beside him for balance.

Aziraphale lunged. Something in his face said that he was clearly expecting him to dodge. Instead, Crowley leaned forwards and snapped his fingers. As a pulse of infernal power hummed in the air between them, he felt two sensations simultaneously. The first was the feeling of the residual heat from Aziraphale’s hand in the metal of the grip of his sword, suddenly warming Crowley’s hand instead. The second was a sharp, hot line of pain across his cheekbone.

The angel froze, sword still stretched out in front of him. His eyes flicked between Crowley’s face and his own hand, wrapped as it was in the coils of a steel serpent. Crowley raised a hand to his cheek and his fingers came away bloodied. _It worked_.

He was a demon of his word. He gave the grip of Aziraphale’s sword one last squeeze and let it drop to the floor. For a moment, the clatter of metal on tile was the only sound. Then, the humans began to cheer. Aziraphale’s gaze followed the noise, but he still didn’t move.

“Do you need to hear me say it?” Crowley asked, stepping forward. “Fine. _I surrender_.”

The angel blinked and looked up at him. “You—you switched them?” His voice was barely audible.

“I did, yeah. You miracled yours not to cut, remember?” He hissed. “Don’t worry, we can switch back later.”

Crowley pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket that hadn’t existed before he wanted it to. There was just enough blood for it to be dramatic, and the bleeding stopped after he dabbed at it for a moment. His corporation was already starting to heal, and he willed it to slow down, at least until he was out of sight of the humans. Maybe even slower than that. He hadn’t had a scar in centuries, other than the pair on his back that he’d had longer than his chosen name. Now, that was an idea…

Aziraphale was lingering nearby, dithering. Hovering. _Better give him something to do with his hands_, Crowley thought, and roughly passed him the bloody handkerchief.

“Here.” He grunted. Aziraphale looked down at it as if he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. “For your sword, Signore Fell.”

“Oh.” The angel said, blinking again. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Don’t.” Crowley snarled, giving a quick jerk of his head in warning. “S’already ruined.” He knew the kind of handkerchiefs Aziraphale carried, frilly silken things that were as likely as not monogrammed, and definitely something he’d resent getting stained with demon blood. As he watched Aziraphale wipe down his blade, he realized he was experiencing morbid curiosity at the idea of staining Aziraphale’s hands.

“Well, that’s settled.” Aziraphale said, slipping Crowley’s sword into his sheath. There was something about the sight of the angel wearing something of Crowley’s, something so blatantly adorned with that snake motif he so often teased, that made it hard for the demon to breathe just for a moment. The handkerchief was still balled in the angel’s other hand. His voice was crisp and formal, and his eyes were fixed on a point somewhere above Crowley’s head. “Say what you must to Signorino Barberini and be on your way, foul fiend.”

“Good duel, yeah?” Crowley called in the direction of the Popeling. He sheathed Aziraphale’s sword, gave the human a mocking bow, and started to back out of the courtyard. “I know if he was here right now, the person you actually wanted to kill would say he was sorry or something. Maybe. I’m not him.”

The young soldiers acted like they were going to start to follow behind him, but they were suddenly quite distracted by the table of snacks. Crowley didn’t want to be followed, not by them, not right now. He locked eyes with Aziraphale across the courtyard, then turned and left. This wouldn’t be goodbye for them, at least not yet. They had a pattern. Aziraphale would want to leave separately but they would bump into each other again in Florence before one of them needed to move on. Maybe as soon as tonight, if he was lucky. The angel hadn’t touched the refreshments table and would want lunch. Maybe dinner. Probably alcohol.

As he slipped through the archway and back inside the empty villa, Crowley touched his cheekbone and felt the sting from the cut fade. There was a line of warmth that lasted for a moment as the flesh knit back together, and then it was over. Probing his skin with his fingertips, Crowley noticed with some satisfaction that the scar that remained felt clean and sharp.

_Satisfaction_. That’s what the humans called it, when a duel ended, and the argument was decided in favor of the person not lying bleeding on the ground. The challenge was satisfied. Crowley’s thoughts couldn’t be further from human honor and insult, the pointless anger and pride that would have claimed a life today if not for the interference of a passing angel and a demon looking for the flimsiest excuse to steal a little of his time. He was satisfied for entirely different, entirely selfish reasons. Crowley sauntered through empty hallways lined with art and gilt, a sway in his hips as he basked in the feeling of a good idea done well.

A voice, low and urgent, stopped him in place.

“_Crowley_.”

When he turned, he saw Aziraphale appear from around the corner from where Crowley had just passed, looking back over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been followed. A reflex, one that was more natural to the angel than breathing. Sunlight poured in from a window to the east, at Crowley’s end of the hall, painting a stripe of light across the floor between them the color of flame.

“I wanted—” The angel hesitated, straightened his spine. “I’m here to give you back your sword.”

Crowley felt a pang of disappointment, the quick death of that absurd little fantasy he’d had of Aziraphale keeping it, of wearing it, snakes and all, as he went about his day. It could never happen—_would_ never happen. The related fantasy of his keeping Aziraphale’s, of it being something of _his_ with him, even if no one else knew it… that one’s death was a bit more drawn-out.

“‘Course, yeah. Sure,” He said, placing a hand on the hilt, “We don’t have to do this right now, you know. We could—”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and Crowley felt the thrum of divine power pulse through the hallway. When he looked down, his hand was resting on the metal coils of a serpent.

_We could have swapped over dinner_.

The sword was a pretext, he reminded himself. There always had to be a pretext, some excuse for them to meet. Besides, he couldn’t have kept it, so it didn’t matter if he didn’t want to. It was a nonissue.

_You could have done that from the courtyard_, he thought, _but you didn’t_.

The angel was here. He followed Crowley into the villa to do something he could have miracled from across the city if he’d wanted to, but clearly, he wanted to see him—and didn’t want to wait, by the looks of it.

_Are you about to leave again, angel_?

Aziraphale stood at the far end of the hall, arms clasped tight behind his back as he fought to keep himself from fidgeting, clearly trying to work himself up to say something. There was a painting hanging on the wall behind him, all sumptuous color and wings. After a moment, Crowley recognized the scene. That was supposed to be Michael, then, sandaled foot on the throat of some creature more beast than man, about to strike. Artists never got very close to accuracy with this sort of a thing, depicting the angels—not counting the times Aziraphale sat for portraits, of course—but this painter in particular must have taken a lot of artistic liberties with their subject. He had clear memories of how Michael had looked that day, and they hadn’t looked anywhere near that serene.

“You’re—” Crowley began, very conscious of the need to choose his words carefully, to encourage the angel instead of scaring him off, “I didn’t drop my sword this time. I’d say it was an improvement.”

“Only because you cheated.” Aziraphale said, his words beginning with a huff of air that might have been a laugh.

“You encouraged me. What was it you told me to do? _Fight with what I was given_?”

Aziraphale ducked his head, as if he couldn’t look Crowley in the face when he said his next words. “You really did improve quite a bit, dear boy.”

Crowley swallowed, trying to will his tongue not to choke him before he could speak. “S’only because I had teacher who could whip me into shape.” Aziraphale laughed, and he felt himself grow bolder. “You should meet him. Great at what he does, but absolutely insufferable, you know. Did you know he tripped me?”

“Now, why would anyone want to do that?” He said, walking towards him. “I’m sure you were the model student. Any fencing master would—”

His mouth was still open, but Aziraphale's words came to an abrupt end as he looked up and met Crowley’s eyes. He hesitated, hurt blooming in his expression, and Crowley had no idea why.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale moved again, crossing the space between them with the same long, determined strides that had carried him across the dueling ground. This time, though, he did not hide his heart behind a wall—it was the opposite problem now, too many emotions playing out on his face too quickly for Crowley to keep up, especially as Aziraphale stepped close, _very close_, in front of him.

“Oh, _Crowley_.” Aziraphale breathed. He reached out a hand and Crowley’s mind went completely offline as his palm, warm and soft, cupped the side of his face. Heart, lungs, brain, all of those superfluous parts of his corporation completely stopped. Frozen in place, only capable of feeling the tip of the angel’s finger as it traced a line along his cheekbone, with a warmth that seemed to sink beneath his skin, the faint beginnings of a tingle—

Before he could stop himself, he’d pulled Aziraphale’s hand away from his face and covered his scar with his other hand. The tingle faded, and so did the warmth. The skin was smoother now, but he still felt that ridge of raised skin. Good. He’d managed to stop the miracle before it was able to heal too much. _What are you playing at, angel_? He thought, his inner voice a panicked shout. _Don’t get rid of it! It’s all the proof I have this was real_.

After a moment, he realized he was still holding Aziraphale’s hand. He immediately dropped it and ran the hand through his hair. “I’m keeping that, angel.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “For how long?”

_How long is it until the sun burns out_? Crowley forced the corners of his lips up. He hoped the smile hid the fact that his heart was in his mouth. “Haven’t decided yet. I like it. I think it makes me look _dashing_.”

The hallways of the villa were silent, but Aziraphale’s response was so quiet it was almost lost in the sound of his breath. “_I wish you wouldn’t, my dear_.”

_Fuckfuckshitfuck_. He didn’t know what how, but he’d fucked it up. He made the angel sad. He had to fix this, quickly. “Can I buy you lunch?”

A smile. That was progress. For a moment, Crowley thought he was going to say yes, but then Aziraphale’s expression closed in on itself. “I wish I could, but they need me back in Rome soon.” He wasn’t looking at him anymore. “Mind how you go.”

“Right.” Crowley said, after his tongue remembered how to move. Feet next, ever uncooperative, but he’d make it work. This was one of the unspoken rules Crowley held himself to. When Aziraphale wanted him to leave, he left. He left Aziraphale alone where he stood, hating every step, and when his resolve finally crumbled and he looked back, the hallway was empty.

* * *

  
Aziraphale didn’t get very far away. He slipped back down the hallway as quietly as he could, grateful that Crowley hadn’t turned, and leaned against the wall around the first corner he came to. Eyes shut tight, feeling too hot all over, he waited for the sound of the footsteps to fade, to hear the door shut. If shame was enough to burn him, he would have been reduced to ash long ago. Clutched tight in his fist, that handkerchief burned, too, soaked as it was in Crowley's blood. Not literally, of course. Nothing of his demon’s would hurt him. But all the same, he couldn’t ignore the way it demanded his attention, bright and sharp like a captured spark of Hellfire in his imagination. As it often was after a meeting with Crowley, his mind was at war with itself.

_It won’t be enough_, came the high whine of despair, _it was only one day_.

The warm bubble of love told him, _it will be enough, it has to be. Look at that magnificent creature, how clever he is. How fast he learns_.

_You’ve done too much. You’ve ruined everything_, snarled a voice that sounded a lot like Gabriel’s, _you betrayed your side, you’ll Fall, and you’ll deserve it_.

Beneath all of the voices, there was the ever-present, quiet keening of panic that on his worst days was all he could hear. It told him, over and over, _he’s going to die_. In the moment, Aziraphale was inclined to listen to it, twisting the ring on his finger enough that it might have chafed him had his skin been human.

Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale _had_ been an active participant in the first war. Before the Fall, before Lucifer and his followers were cast from Heaven, they had all been angels. There was no Hellfire yet, nothing that could permanently destroy any of them… but there were plenty of ways for them to hurt each other, to maim and mangle corporation and angelic essence alike. A flaming sword could do a lot in that regard, in the right hands. Aziraphale had rushed in to where the fighting was thickest, leading his platoon into battle with Her Word hot in his mouth and in his heart. He did what he was asked without a question, cutting his rebellious siblings down without remorse or hesitation. He had not been without mercy, however. That was a comfort to him, all these millennia later, hollow though it was. Whenever one of Lucifer’s rebels threw down their arms before him, he did not strike them where they knelt. Sandalphon had mocked him for it later.

Then came the Fall. God’s unquestionable judgement, the screams of the damned, the bright streaks of light like comets as they Fell in flames... There had been a moment as he watched them that Aziraphale feared he would be cast out alongside them, and he fell to his knees and wept for Her forgiveness. His lapse had been brief, but in that first instant, before he could catch himself, he questioned why She would do this to Her children. For Her own ineffable reasons, She chose to ignore his questions, his doubt, and permitted Aziraphale to stay.

Over the centuries, Aziraphale developed the habit of searching his memories of that battle for Crowley. He would never see his face, of course. Memories of the Fallen had been washed from the minds of the Host that same day. Trying to remember a demon as they had once been was a slippery task, as impossible as Crowley trying to remember his first-given name. It felt like trying to look at their reflection in a mirror at the bottom of a well. Aziraphale had a number of memories like that, from Before, of conversations he’d had with angels who now seemed like ink smudges on his mind. He could have met Crowley in Heaven half a million times and would never know it.

That didn’t stop Aziraphale from trying to remember, of course. He’d never be able to see a face, but he revisited those memories over and over again looking for red hair. For centuries—millennia, if he was being honest—he had tortured himself with a question: Was Crowley the sort of person who would have knelt, or would he have been one of the ones that would have kept fighting until the flames from Aziraphale’s sword charred the edges of his true form?

Yesterday, Crowley had told him he’d kept out of the way of most of the carnage in that terrible battle, until he could hide no more and Fell. Aziraphale hoped it was true. He hoped more than was angelic of him that they’d never crossed paths.

When it was just the two of them, even for stakes as low as the pageantry of a human duel, Crowley refused to surrender for Aziraphale. He’d forced them to keep fighting until he was satisfied. Aziraphale understood it, he really did, and it broke his heart. In Heaven in the Beginning, and now in Hell, all Crowley could do was run and hide until he couldn’t anymore, until whatever eventual punishment was waiting for him was dealt out. No surrender would be accepted. There was never any way out. When he was given the option, even if he expected to lose, Crowley insisted he lose on _his_ terms.

Aziraphale knew that Crowley had asked for that cut, that he was proud of it. He could have healed it in an instant, but he made the wound knit closed into a scar. Into a reminder, though of what Aziraphale couldn’t be certain. The fact that Crowley chose this didn’t make the image of his blood on that sword fade from Aziraphale's mind any faster. It felt like it had been seared into the insides of his eyelids, floating there in his vision every time he blinked like an afterimage left after foolishly staring into an eclipse.

_He hurt Crowley_.

They had their Arrangement. Though he’d never say it aloud, Aziraphale knew they had a friendship, too. They spent their time together running and hiding and lying, keeping the secret at all costs, and so far, they’d been safe. Even if they were never caught, though, both of them knew that this… _thing_… they had together wouldn’t last forever. There was an end date. It was Written. One day, all of this would end… and so would one of them. Maybe both, but at least one. There was no other way it could go, no way they both would get out of this alive.

There would be another battle. As it had been in the first war, Aziraphale would be called to one side and Crowley to the other. Armageddon wouldn’t be like that first war, though. They weren’t all angels anymore. The weapons were worse. Hellfire and Holy Water would find their way onto the field, and this time when angels and demons fell, they wouldn’t get up again. It was to be a war with no quarter given, no mercy. It wouldn’t matter if someone knelt and cast their weapon aside. The choice for the losing side would be death in battle or execution after, because in the end, only one side could be left standing.

Aziraphale could do nothing to protect Crowley when that day came. He had to trust in his friend’s promise that he would stay low, avoid the fighting as long as he could. Maybe yesterday would help. Maybe Crowley would remember how to watch for a blow before it lands, remember how to spot an opening in his enemy’s guard, remember how to plant his feet so he couldn’t be knocked down. It was all Aziraphale could give him. All he could do was buy him time.

He didn’t want to fight. If he’d been able to want back then, if he’d known angels even _could_ want things, he knew he wouldn’t have wanted to fight Before, either. Just as it had been Before, though, a war was coming, and Aziraphale knew that it didn’t matter what he wanted. He would fight. As much as it sickened him to think about it, he would kill. There was no other option. He was an angel, a Warrior of the Lord, and when the last war came amid the fires of Armageddon, he would fight. He would fight, but he would not—

There was another moment, as he stepped back into the now-empty courtyard and gazed up at the brilliant sun, where Aziraphale wondered again if he would Fall for his private thoughts. There was no burning, no pain… no response. He had to assume She approved, or else chose to ignore him, but he refused to take back the thought once he had it. He thought of the blood, of the scar, of the streaks of fire from burning angel wings in the sky around Heaven, and he made up his mind.

_I won’t be the one who does it_, Aziraphale thought fiercely, _I won’t be the one who destroys him. I won’t ever hurt him again_.

* * *

  
**London, 1601**

Aziraphale stayed away for nearly twenty years, until the needs of the Arrangement pulled them together again. When they next met, in London this time, at the Globe Theatre, he noticed that Crowley had gotten rid of the scar.

They met for drinks that night to catch up before Aziraphale was to leave for Edinburgh. In the light of the pale dawn, he found himself laughing so hard that he had to wipe the wine from his nostrils with a lacy handkerchief. Crowley was standing up on a chair in the room they'd rented above the tavern, waving his spindly arms as he recounted yet another of the daring adventures of Captain Crowley and his dread pirate ship _The Serpentine_. It was one of those moments Aziraphale had come to cherish, one of those last stolen moments with his friend before they would have to sober up and part and resume their duties.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t ever enough. But it would have to be. There would never be enough time, no matter how well they kept their secret. Aziraphale kept these stolen moments secret, too, hoarded like the precious things they were, things to take out and run his fingers across when the fear got to be too much.

He glanced out the window at the rising sun, then back at Crowley’s carefree, fearless smile, and wished he could pretend it was still night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and commented and kudo'd, you have kept me going through the last grueling weeks of this my penultimate semester of graduate school. This chapter kept growing on me and I couldn't split it up, but I am so happy I managed to wrangle it before the chaos of the holidays hit.
> 
> I know, it doesn't end _happily_ per se, but I really wanted to explore Aziraphale's transformation from "Heaven's soldier in the first war" to "angel who says _fuck Heaven, and fuck the war_" and chooses Crowley. It was a long transformation, one that never really finished until literal hours before Armageddon, so it didn't happen all at once. The moment where he made his decision not to fight and told the Quartermaster to shove it is one of my absolute favorite moments in the whole miniseries. 
> 
> The question that prompted me to write this (along with the constant hunger I have for period pieces and sword fights) was: "Before he decided not to fight, when did Aziraphale make the decision to not hurt Crowley?" As all questions like that do, this spiraled wildly out of control, and 30k-odd words later, here we are. 
> 
> See y'all in the comments, if you are so inclined. <3
> 
> * * *
> 
> **This spiraled wildly out of control _again_ and now this is a series**. The next update is not going to be The Adventures of Captain Crowley and His Dread Pirate Ship _The Serpentine_, though that's coming as soon as I gain the ability to write a one-shot. 
> 
> Part two jumps ahead about 200 years. It's another multi-chapter fic with some more pining, more Strong Aziraphale, and the construction of more intricate rituals to touch the skin of other angels (fallen and otherwise).

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, y'all! I'm back. Please talk to me in the comments, if you're up to it. I answer everyone.
> 
> **Edit**: If you're some kind of bigot, this story isn't for you. Do not engage with this work. I can't block you on Ao3, or remove you from my kudos, but know that you are distinctly unwelcome. I'm broke as a joke but I will be doing about the only actionable thing I can: donating some of my real life actual cash to organizations fighting back against hate groups. In simple terms I hope you can understand, since clearly the message of the work went over your head--_fuck off._ :-)


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